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FOR 


LOVE AND HONOR 



FRANK'I^ARRETT 

• f 

AUTHOR OF 

FOUND GUILTY,” “A PRODIGAL’S PROGRESS,” “ KITTY’s FATHER.” 


' ? as '^2 / 

3 S ^ 

NEW YORK 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

5 AND 7 East Sixteenth Street 


Chicago; 266 & 268 Wabash Avk. 




Copyright, 1892, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANV 


[A// rights reserved^ 


7 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


CHAPTER I. 

A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS. 

“ What is it ? — who calls ?” 

Gerard Launce spoke, raising himself suddenly on his 
bed of skin-covered moss, and looking round the single 
chamber of the log-hut. 

Shirley, on his right hand, gave a grunt, and turned 
over on his side ; Brooke, on the left, made no response 
whatever, but slept on, snoring regularly. Clearly it 
was not from them that the cry had come which had 
awakened Launce in alarm. He stirred the embers of 
the fire at his feet with the muzzle of his rifie, and 
looked again round the hut. Nothing moved ; the door 
was closed. Was the sound of distress imaginary — 
the conclusion of a dream ? Or had some Indian out- 
cast, or lost trapper, wandered thither over the way- 
less snow ? With the latter possibility in his mind, he 
could not lie down to sleep again. 

He had but to pull on his boots to complete his 
dress ; then he threw his blanket over his shoulders 
and ears, took down the bar and opened the door. It 
was as still without as within. Scaling the rough steps 
cut in the snow, he came to the surface, which lay level 
with the top of the hut. Nothing disturbed the silence 
and stillness. The steady wind made no sound 
amongst the pines standing rigid in their common can- 
opy of frozen snow. To the west of the clearing, the 
sky-line of the firs was silver : to the east it was lead ; 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


« 

the sun was rising behind the gray unbroken sheet of 
cloud. 

“ Who calls ? ” he shouted. 

No answer. 

“ Who calls ? ” he repeated, and bent his head to 
listen. 

From the woods, no response ; from the hut a low 
grumbling. Then — 

“ Who left the door open?” from Brooke. 

“ Launce has gone out,” said Shirley. “ What’s the 
matter, Launce?” 

“ Whatever it be, shut that confounded door. The 
sparks are blowing all over the shop, and I believe my 
ear’s off.” 

Launce waited another minute, casting his eyes 
round the even surface of the clearing, and then de- 
scended to the hut. 

“ What’s up, Launce ? ” 

“ I could have sworn I heard a voice cry, ‘ Help, 
help ! ’ ” 

“For the Lord’s sake, shut that confounded door. 
Brooke wouldn’t stir from his bed if all the world were 
calling for help. He’s like an old bear for sleeping and 
growling.” 

Brooke made no reply, for he had covered his head 
with his blanket, and was to all appearances asleep once 
more. 

“You saw nothing outside, I suppose?” said Shir- 
ley. 

“ Nothing. It must have been fancy on my part.” 

“ Probably. Had there been a cry, actually, I should 
have heard it.” 

“ Not so sure of that,” said Launce. “ You made no 
reply when I sang out.” 

“ So used to it,” said Brooke from under the blanket. 

“ Go to sleep, Brooke. You’ve only had nine hours, 
and you’ll have to turn out in another. It’s odd. I tell 
you, Shirley, I heard the cry distinctl v, ‘ Help, help ! ’ 
like that.” 

“ Possibly a wolf. I have heard them cry in that 
manner, often.” 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


9 


The blanket shook convulsively, and Brooke said — 

“ If the wolf had any sense of humor, Launce, how 
he would laugh at you.” 

After a little cross-fire of chaff the men were silent. 
Shirley, with a yawn, closed his eyes, and gave himself 
up to dreamy forgetfulness ; Brooke lay buried under 
his blanket ; and Launce, having put some light wood 
and a couple of logs on the embers, lit a pipe and sat 
down on the end of his bed, Indian fashion, with his 
knees between his knitted fingers. 

For a while he sat there with his eyes fixed on the 
fire, pufBng at his pipe in thoughtful stillness ; then he 
pulled a letter out from his pocket, and, holding it up 
sideways to the light, read it through from beginning 
to end ; and fixing his eyes once more upon the fire, 
folded it slowly and returned it to his pocket. 

“ I thought I smelt tobacco,” said Brooke, bringing 
his head from under the blanket, and raising himself 
on his elbow. “ Pitch me your pouch, Launce.” 

Launce threw the pouch, and continued his silent 
refiection for a couple of minutes ; then, dropping on 
his elbow, he took his eyes from the fire, and, turning 
them towards Brooke, said — 

“Do you believe in the communication of ideas 
between two people far apart?” 

Brooke lit his pipe, and answered between jets of 
smoke — 

“ Communication of ideas (puff) between (puff) Brown 
of Pentonville and (puff) Jones of (puff) Botany Bay, 
for example ? Two individuals (puff) to whom we will 
suppose that the benefit (puff) of the postal system is 
denied?” 

“ Yes ; supposing that some strong affinity in feeling 
exists between them.” 

“ Do I believe that one idea, entering simultaneously 
the minds of two individuals blessed with what are 
called sensitive organisms, and having interests in 
common, is the result of anything but accident? Is 
that your question ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Then my answer is : No, I don’t.” 


10 


FOB LOVE AND HONOB. 


“And yet, have you not noticed how frequently, in 
speaking of a person you have not seen for some time, 
you suddenly find yourself face to face with him ? ” 

“ I know the proverb — ‘ Speak of the old un,’ etc., 
and I believe it no more in its metaphorical sense than 
in its literal sense. Great heavens, Launce, are we to 
believe all the nonsense that superstitious barbarians 
have handed down to us in the form of proverbs ? Do 
we believe in the domestic calamities to ensue from 
walking under ladders, spilling salt, crossing knives, 
and the rest ? ” 

Launce had his eyes on the fire again, and seemed 
unmoved by his friend’s argument. 

Brooke eyed him in silence while he took half a dozen 
pulls at his pipe, then he said bluntly — 

“ Launce, old man, what are you driving at ? ” 

“ I will tell you frankly ; for I must have my mind 
disabused of the impression that inquiets it here, or 
return to the old country.” 

“ I agree with you. You’ve been restless and uneasy 
for a couple of weeks, and it is useless your staying 
here to be miserable. Give Shirley a kick.” 

“ You can spare yourself the trouble; I’m awake,” 
said Shirley. 

“ Then sit up and light your pipe ; we’re in council. 
Launce talks about going home.” 

“ That’s nonsense,” said Shirley, sitting up. 

“ How do you know before you’ve heard his argu- 
ment ? ” growled Brooke, setting the coffee-pot in the 
embers. “ Now, Launce, let us hear you.” 

“ You know Dorothy Gordon, Brooke ?” 

“ Yes, the girl who cried so when we parted at Liver- 
pool.” 

“ As I wasn’t there, I should like a few particulars,” 
said Shirley. “ Who is she ?” 

“ The daughter of my father’s second wife ” 

“ There is no consanguinity between you.” 

“ None. She is my step-sister.” 

“ Ah, that makes it more interesting,” said Shirley. 
“Go on.” 

“ I was fond of her from the first, and she was still 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


11 


more fond of me ; our attachment strengthened as we 
grew older.” 

“ Oh, I say, isn’t this romantic ? You were sweet- 
hearts, I suppose.” 

“No, Jack, our attachment was not of that romantic 
kind ; for as she, at the period of our greatest intimacy, 
was seven years old, and I was twenty-one, our feelings 
as regards sweethearts were at variance. She loved a 
doll to distraction, and I entertained a despairing pas- 
sion for a married cousin of five-and-thirty . No, Doro- 
thy worshipped me hecausel gave her presents, and took 
her out with me in hansom cabs during vacation; and I 
liked her because I was, like most young fellows of that 
age, a prig, anxious to be admired, and ready to patron- 
ize. And she did admire me intensely, and never saw 
what a conceited young humbug I was. To this day, I 
believe, she looks upon me as the wisest and most heroic 
of men.” 

“ You don’t give her a very good character for 
sense.” 

“ Thank heaven, the best of women lack the shrewd- 
ness to see us as we are, and that is why some of us 
come to be blessed with loving wives,” Brooke re- 
marked ; and then he nodded at Launce to continue. 

“ When I was twenty-two my father died — died sud- 
denly.” Launce paused a minute, looking in the fire, 
and continued hurriedly, as if to avoid further refer- 
ence to a painful subject : “ The shock so afflicted my 
mother, that a year later she also died. The small for- 
tune they left was divided equally between Dorothy and 
me. I was old enough to look after myself, but Doro- 
thy, then only nine years of age, was placed under the 
guardianship of my father’s brother — Stephen Launce. 
Since then, I have seen her seldom. My aunt and I 
are sworn enemies, and my unele, a feeble^kind of man, 
if he does not actually share her dislike to me, is evi- 
dently less pleased when I walk into his house than 
when I walk out of it. Nevertheless, for Dorothy’s 
sake, I have made a visit to the Cedars — Mr. Launce’s 
villa at Maidenhead — every three or four months, and 
spent a few hours with her. As you may suppose, she 


1*2 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


has changed greatly, for she is now seventeen, but her 
confidence in me is unaltered.” 

“ How nice ! ” sighed Shirley. 

“ I have no reason to doubt her confidence in me.” 

“ Nor she yours in her, I’ll be bound. The r6le of 
ingenue suits a pretty girl of seventeen charmingly.” 

“You know nothing about it, Jack,” said Brooke; 
“ look after that coffee, or it will boil over. Go ahead, 
Launce.” 

“ Her feeling towards me is simply that of a sister. 
I am certain of it. Had it been otherwise, I might 
have been content to stay in England, despite Jack’s 
invitation, and golden promises of sport. Had she any 
coquettish notion such as Shirley hints at she could not 
trust me so fully. No ; she regards me, I am sure, as 
if I were actually her brother — a near and dear relative, 
^ whose advice she can demand, whose affection she can 
rely upon. She takes me for her champion, and, 
rightly or wrongly, believes that I would stand between 
her and any ill that menaced her happiness. It is not 
unnatural that she should look to me for support. If 
we men feel the want of sympathy and advice, how 
necessary must it be to a young girl ! She has no 
relatives, and, I may add, no friends in whom she can 
confide. My uncle’s feeble counsel fails to inspire trust, 
and my aunt’s cold, selfish disposition repels confi- 
dence. I do not wish to be un j ust to the old woman, but 
I cannot overcome the impression that she is jealous of 
any one for whom poor Dorothy shows affection, and 
would deprive her even of those slight services that I 
may render. This was particularly noticeable the last 
time we were together. With one ingenious pretext 
and another she prevented Dorothy being alone with 
me. She scarcely left us from the moment I arrived 
at the Cedars until we parted at Liverpool.” 

“ I don’t quite understand her motive for such stupid 
cruelty,” said Shirley. 

“ Because you don’t quite understand the nature cf 
jealous women,” said Brooke. “ A nice life her husband 
must have led with her. Try the coffee, Launce, and 
resume.” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


13 


“You seem to be somewhat wise, Brooke,” said 
Shirley, as Launce rose to help himself to coffee. 
“ Will you be good enough to tell me what jealousy a 
woman of fifty, say, can have for a girl of seventeen? ” 
“ The greedy jealousy of an envious, cruel disposi- 
tion. Do you remember Ashmead, who was kicked 
out of the Guards ? Well, he bought a Newfoundland, 
paid a deuce of a price for him, and the dog wouldn’t 
take to him. Followed to heel, obeyed him, and feared 
him, but never showed any signs of affection for him. 
How he thrashed the dog for licking my hand, and the 
reason was that the intelligent brute wouldn’t lick his. 
The two cases of jealousy are similar.” 

“Perhaps,” said Launce, setting down his cup. 
“But it is possible that Mrs. Launce has a better 
motive for isolating Dorothy.” 

“ I hope so, for the poor girl’s sake.” 

“ Now, to come to the point. You recollect, some 
time since, that I started up in the night under the 
same impression that I had half an hour since — that 
some one was crying for assistance ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, yesterday, amongst the budget of letters 
brought, was one from Dorothy, in which she says ” — 
he brought out the letter, and, after finding the pas- 
sage, read : “ ‘ I have been thinking of you very much 
lately, dear Gerard, and this morning I awoke, crying 
to you for help, just as in the old days, at Barewood, I 
used to call you if I was in trouble ’ — now this letter 
is dated exactly three weeks ago, and it is precisely 
the morning to which she refers that I was awoke by 
the cry for help.” 

“ What an odd coincidence ! ” said Brooke. 

“ Coincidence ! Is it nothing more ? ” 

“ Nothing else, take my word for it. I tell you I 
have myself mistaken the cry of a wolf for a human 
voice. But the letter, Launce — does the little lady 
give any explanation of her cry, or say anything to 
warrant your fears in her behalf ? ” 

“ The letter is brief, and seems to me to be written 
under constraint. She says nothing more about her- 


14 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


self. Her letters used to be long and full of fun ; this 
is serious every word. She hopes I am enjoying 
my sport in the backwoods, and trusts I shall always 
be very., very happy. The words are underlined as I 
emphasize them.” 

“ The letter seems to me to call for graver thought 
than the mysterious cry you fancied you heard,” said 
Brooke, gently. “ I suppose the girl generally cries 
when you leave her ? ” 

“ Xo. She has shed a tear, but never wept as she 
did at Liverpool. I thought the poor little soul’s heart 
was breaking. The cry that I heard this morning 
seemed to me like her voice.” 

The three men looked into the fire in silence. 

Suddenly they started from their listless attitude, 
and glanced at each other significantly. They all 
heard it — the cry like that of a child in pain, faint and 
far away, yet distinct. 

“ That’s no wolf ! ” cried Shirley, springing to his 
feet. “ On with your snow-shoes, boys ; there’s some 
poor wretch lost in the snow.” 

The three men examined the clearing and the sur- 
rounding woods for an hour without finding any trace 
of life, save in the footmarks of a few four-footed crea- 
tures. They fired their rifles at intervals ; but the cry 
was not repeated. They paused by the entrance to the 
hut to give one last look round. The light was strong 
now. But nothing moved; not a sound broke the 
awful silence. The clouds, unbroken and dull, hung 
like a pall over the dead world. 

“ One may be pardoned for superstition in such a 
solitude,” said Brooke, with a shiver. “ Let us go in.” 

They entered the hut and sat down in silence. 
Even Shirley, who, as a host, felt bound to make his 
hut and its surroundings agreeable to his visitors, 
seemed unable to free himself from the pervading 
gloom. Brooke was the first to speak. 

“ Launce,” said he, “ you must go home. Hot in 
answer to these cries which Jack, if he were the hunter 
he pretends to be, might account for in a moment, but 
for two cogent reasons ” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


15 


“ Of which,” interposed Shirley, “ one is that, having 
accepted my invitation for a season’s trapping, you 
will find it consistent with your principles as a gentle- 
man and an old chum to leave before it is half over.” 

“ Who on earth are you, Jack, that your feeling 
should be considered?” asked Brooke. “I’ll go home 
myself if you open your lips again. In the first place, 
Launce, your little friend may actually stand in need 
of your help — a possibility which is greatly supported 
by the letter you have received and the facts you re- 
ferred to ; and, secondly, you could not be happy if you 
stayed here. Every sound that passed Jack’s limited 
knowledge of natural history to explain would have 
a special signification, and add to your feeling of un- 
easiness. I am not altogether unselfish in my advice, 
for anxiety is contagious, and the result of your being 
dissatisfied and restless would be that we should all 
have to go home in a month’s time.” 

“ When does the mail return. Jack? ” 

“ To-morrow it passes Rook’s Point. But hang it, 
old fellow ! You can’t go. There’s four days’ sleigh- 
ing to Montreal, and — and we shall be wretched with- 
out you. Old Brooke, there, likes you just as much 
as I do.” 

“ He must go, Jack,” said Brooke. 

“ Brooke’s right,” said Launce. “ To-morrow I shall 
start.” 


It) 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


CHAPTER II. 

MES. STEPHEN LAUNCE’s CARPET-DANCE. 

My nanie is Wilhelm Benedick. As may be imagined 
I was not an eye-witness of the scene which forms the 
subject of the preceding chapter. That and many 
others to follow are compiled from notes which I have 
carefully collected during many months with the view 
to forming a complete history of the events which have 
for me so profound and so pathetic an interest. These 
notes I have arranged in a narrative form, and they 
will fall in their proper places without further refer- 
ence to their origin ; but I feel it necessary at the com- 
mencement to acknowledge the source of my infor- 
mation, and to thank Mr. Brooke, Mr. Launce, and 
other gentlemen for the assistance they have rendered 
me. 

Of my own history, a few lines here will be sufficient. 
I was born near the city of Prague, in Bohemia, in the 
year 1828. At the age of fifteen I left school and en- 
tered the office of a timber-merchant as junior clerk. 
But the life was distasteful to me, and, having learnt 
music from my mother, who was an excellent musician, 
I accepted the advice of a friend, and came to London, 
expecting that my talent would be at once recognized, 
and that I should speedily make my fortune. I lived 
for some time in great poverty, for I found that the 
English were not the unmusical people I had been led 
to imagine them, and that there were many better 
musicians than myself in London who found it difficult 
to earn a living by their talents. But fortune favored 
me, and by the time I could speak the language I 
succeeded in getting a few pupils. In 1855 I married 
an English young lady named Marj^ Smith, and in the 
year following my son Josef was born. In 1857 my 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


17 


poor Mary died of an epidemic, and I was left a wid- 
ower with my baby boy. I am still a widower, and a 
musician, and I live in London. 

It was in the month of March, 1878, that I received 
a commission from the music publishers in Bond 
Street, with whom I am connected, to furnish music 
for a “ carpet-dance ” to take place at the residence of 
Mr. S-tephen Launce, Grandison House, Kensington. I 
myself play the piano ; I took with me a ’cello, violin, 
and a piccolo. 

I found Grandison House a new and pretentious-look- 
ing building. The lobby was beautifully dressed 
with flowers and ferns ; the staircase was decorated 
in accordance with the new taste — a row of lilies and 
sunflowers placed alternately from the foot to the top. 
On the ground floor the rooms were arranged for 
cards and conversation, and refreshment ; on the first 
floor the drawing-room was cleared for dancing. The 
walls and chimney-piece, the side-tables, corners, and 
recesses, were all adorned in the very best style; 
nothing could have been more eccentric and charming. 
On one side a mirror showed your face as round as a 
kettledrum, on the other as long as a fiddle. Seeing 
such elegance, I wondered that I had not heard the 
name of Mr. Stephen Launce before. 

The drawing-room was large ; several smaller rooms 
adjoined; the entrances were masked by a kind of 
arras. The footman conducted us into one of these 
chambers near the piano, and was good enough to ex- 
plain* that it was for our use, and that the refreshment 
upon the table was at our disposal. 

“ They’re not real aristocrats, or they wouldn’t be 
so generous,” said the ’cello to me, when the footman 
left us. 

“ They’re good enough for me ! ” replied the piccolo, 
helping himself to a glass of sherry. He is an excellent 
musician, but somewhat vulgar, the piccolo. When I 
had taken off my hat and coat, I took my place at the 
piano. It was a magnificent Erard, which gave me 
delight to touch. 

“ Crikey ! Here’s a new fake,” whispered the piccolo, 
2 


18 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


as he drew his chair near me. lie looked at the floor 
significantly, and I discovered the carpet around the 
piano was thickly strewn with rushes. At the same 
time, under the pretence of trying his instrument, he 
played the first notes of a song then popular at the 
music halls, called “ Where was Moses ? ” 

I was curious to see the people of the house, for, by 
being a silent observer in so many entertainments of 
this kind, I have acquired a taste for the study of 
character. I expected to see a young newly married 
couple just making their entrance to society ; I was 
astonished when, Mr. Stephen Launce entering the 
room, and giving instructions to a servant, I perceived 
him to be a gentleman at least as old as myself. He 
looked older, indeed, for my hair, despite my troubles, 
is still black, whilst his was as white as the paper I am 
writing on. His shoulders, also, were rounder and more 
bent than mine. Having dismissed the servant, he 
crossed to us with a quick short step, nervously folding 
his hands one over the other, and casting rapid furtive 
glances in every part of the room. He asked if I found 
everything to my satisfaction, and when L assured him 
I wanted nothing, he turned away sharply, and left 
the room with the same brisk step, and the same ap- 
prehensive glances from right to left. 

The piccolo said to me : 

“ He looks as if the rafters were giving way already ; 
how will he look when we come to the galops ? ” 

We have frequently seen an expression of fear in 
the faces of people giving dances in houses of modern 
construction, on account of the vibration caused by 
the dancers ; but it struck me at once that it was 
no transitory apprehension that Mr. Stephen Launce 
demonstrated. Habitual nervousness, an excessively 
timid disposition, or the dread of a long-impending 
calamity could alone account for the strained brows, 
the tightened lips, and painfully restless eyes. I never 
saw such dread anxiety in the face of any other man. 
It was a relief when he turned aAvay. 

Soon afterwards, Mrs. Launce entered the room, 
with Miss Gordon and Mr. Harold Belouse. Mrs. 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


19 


Launce appeared to be much younger than her hus- 
band, and was still a handsome woman, with a com- 
manding presence and refined manners. Her features 
were of that pronounced type by which one distin- 
guishes women of birth and distinction. The expression 
of her face was proud, imperious, and arrogant. One 
could not suppose that she ever made mistakes, or 
acknowledged being in error. Her carriage was dig- 
nified, and in complete harmony with perfect self-con. 
trol. Every step, every gesture seemed premeditated- 
Between her and Mr. Launce it would be impossible to 
imagine a stronger contrast. It was not difficult to 
understand why Mr. Launce married her ; but her 
motive in marrying him called for explanation. 
Probably she needed money, and he had it. A girl 
such as she must have been could not have married an 
insignificant man for love alone. As she stood in tho 
centre of the room, calmly looking round to see that 
everything was in accordance with her wishes, I won- 
dered how she could endure her husband’s nervous 
haste and restlessness, and pitied him in having a wife 
so incapable of giving him comfort or relief. 

I was astonished when she spoke to Miss Gordon, 
and, later on, when she was speaking to her husband, 
to find a sympathetic tenderness in her voice, and in 
her eyes an expression of solicitude, which suggested 
to me that possibly she shared at heart her husband’s 
anxiety, but was too proud to let it gain an ascendency 
over her mind. 

When Miss Gordon removed from her head and 
shoulders the thick Shetland shawl in which she had 
entered the room, I was struck with her beauty. I 
had been reading in the day Ovid’s story of Pygmalion, 
and it seemed to me that this young lady might have 
been such a statue as Galatea, or Galatea such a girl 
as she. The delicacy of her features, the form of her 
face, the shape and smallness of her head, and her pale 
complexion, were such as I had conceived in reading 
of the ivory statue that melted the sculptor’s hardened 
heart. I thought slie must be taller than Mrs. Launce, 
until I saw them standing close together ; her small 


20 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


head and long throat, her slight, closely dressed figure, 
made her seem taller than she was. She was thin, 
and perhaps for that reason her arms and neck were 
covered, or because her health was delicate, and it was 
necessary to protect herself against the cold. She 
looked unwell — her cheek lacked the roundness of 
youth, and was destitute of color ; she moved with 
listless apathy, there was no animation in her face ; 
her eyes were full of melancholy. Her dulness was 
not the result of stupidity or affectation ; there was in- 
telligence in every feature of her face, and she seemed 
conscious of the intellectual beauty of her brow, for, 
instead of concealing it under a fringe as was the 
fashion of that moment, she had the rich brown mass 
of her hair drawn back and over the beautiful dome of 
her head. “Is it ill health that robs her face of 
vivacity ? ” I asked myself, “ or does she also bear 
her part in the burden of care that rests upon this 
house ? ” 

Mr. Harold Belouse I knew well by sight, seeing him 
at almost every fashionable gathering where my 
services were employed. He was a large bull-necked . 
young man, with a square, good-looking face, and the 
robust strength and proportions of a pugilist, a navvy, 
or a bargeman. He stood beside Mrs. Launce in an 
attitude of fiaccid fiabbiness, holding a lily with a long 
stalk, which he occasionally smelt, as if for refresh- 
ment and support. For, by a curious freak of nature, 
his disposition was altogether out of accord with his 
faculties, and the highest purpose of his life was, as it 
seemed to me, to conceal his manhood under a guise of 
imbecility. He was, however, a leader of fashion, and 
had clearly been invited by ]\Irs. Launce to give his 
advice in the decoration of her rooms. He nodded 
approval as his languid eye wandered from lilies to 
sunfiowers, from blue plates to peacocks’ feathers, and 
sighed with pleasure when at length they rested on 
the rushes strewn around the piano. He looked at us 
and shook his head unhappily. 

“ When will culture restore to us the simple pipe 
and tabor ? ” he asked with a sigh, and then, crossing 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


21 


the room with an effort that seemed to tax his forces 
to the utmost, he begged me to play everything pia- 
nissimo or la7^go a^ulante. 

“ As a musician and an artist,” said he, “ you will 
understand me when I ask you to let the music he in 
harmony with the coloring of this chamber — low in 
tone and grayish green. If you could fix your atten- 
tion upon a lily, a plaque, or anything of beauty, and 
play up to it, you would realize the artistic ideal.” 

I thought the piccolo would have burst out laughing 
or done himself some internal injury as he listened to 
this advice. He bent down, pretending to pick up a 
piece of music, and I could see his throat growing 
redder and more red, and the veins below his ears 
distending terribly. 

I promised to do my best, and Mr. Belouse returned 
to Mrs. Launce, who was tenderly wrapping the shawl 
about Miss Gordon, preparatory to leaving the room. 

As the company assembled, I recognized a number 
of ladies and gentlemen whom I had seen frequently in 
good houses, as visitors, but none of that particular 
set that give the best entertainments ; and this led me 
to suppose Mr. and Mrs. Launce had not yet established 
a distinct position in what is called good society. In- 
deed, the behavior of these visitors was conclusive on 
that point. They formed a little coterie of their own, 
made up their own sets for the square dances, regarded 
the other guests with a chilling curiosity, and behaved 
towards their hosts with an assumption of amiable 
sufferance and self-sacrificing patronage. This was 
very amusing to me, who had seen them elsewhere, 
doing their utmost to make themselves agreeable and 
pleasant, and scorning to acknowledge each other. 

In an interval between the dances, I was sitting by 
the piano — my associates having left me to refresh 
themselves in the adjoining room — when I noticed a 
gentleman who had just entered the drawing-room 
looking around as if to find some one. He was not 
handsome, but what I thought a fair type of a healthy, 
well-bred English gentleman — tall, broad-shouldered, 
thin-flanked, fair, possibly, but browned by exposure. 


22 


FOB LOVE AND HONOB. 


with light hair, a small pointed beard, a long, straw- 
colored moustache, and eyes of that transparent blue 
which seems to reflect rather than absorb the light. 
This was Mr. Gerard Launce. 

He was standing near me, and our eyes suddenly 
meeting, he came to my side, and with a little bow 
said — 

“ I am looking for Miss Gordon ; can you tell me if 
she is in the room ? ” 

“ Miss Gordon left the room after the waltz. Ah ! 
she is there, returning by the opening on the right,” 
I replied. 

The color rose in Mr. Launce’s cheek ; he made a 
step forward, checked himself, and taking the chair by 
my side, sat with his arms resting on his knees, his 
body bent forward, and his eye fixed in earnest atten- 
tion upon the young lady. His position by the piano 
partly concealed him from her view. 

“Who is the lady beside her?” he asked in a low 
tone. 

“ Mrs. Betterton.” 

“ And the gentleman speaking to her and touching 
her arm is Mr. Betterton, I conclude.” 

“ No, sir ; Mr. Betterton sits yonder on the canape.” 

“ The thin elderly man, with the bilious complexion, 
who is looking at her ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

Several gentlemen had closed round Miss Gordon 
and her companion. 

“Mrs. Betterton seems to have many admirers,” 
said Mr. Launce, frowning and pulling his moustache. 

I bowed, and then noticing that a couple of Mr. 
Launce’s exclusive visitors were observing us, and 
doubtless satirizing the gentleman who could sit down 
and enter into conversation with a hired musician, I 
thought it advisable to inform Mr. Launce that I was 
not a guest, but an instrumentalist paid to play the 
piano. 

“ Ah, you are a professional player,” said he ; and 
then, with a smile, added, “ that accounts for the music 
being so good.^’ 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


23 


The graceful courtesy with which, in this simple 
compliment, he put me at my ease convinced me that, 
however vulgar the majority of Mrs. Launce’s visitors 
were, she had, at least, one guest who was a thorough 
gentleman. 

He made a few remarks upon the subject of music, 
and then, seeing that Miss Gordon had left the circle 
of which Mrs. Betterton was the centre, he rose, and 
with a bow, left me. 


24 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


CHAPTER III. 

Dorothy’s trouble. 

“ Dolly,” said Launce, in a low voice, overtaking 
Miss Gordon. “ Don’t be alarmed, dear, it is only ” 

“ Gerard ! ” 

Her cry was shrill. She had turned quickly at the 
sound of his voice, for an instant doubted if it were he, 
and then, catching at his hand, feeling he was there, 
his name rose involuntarily to her lips. 

Fortunately the prelude to a mazurka was being 
played, and only those in her immediate vicinity heard 
the sharp cry. Several persons came to her side, 
amongst them Mrs. Betterton. 

“My dear, dear Dorothea, what has happened?” 
she exclaimed, with effusive warmth, and — seeing her 
resting upon a gentleman’s arm — with considerable 
curiosity. 

“ Nothing, nothing. I am only very surprised and 
very pleased — very pleased indeed,” said Dorothy, 
turning her face first to Mrs. Betterton, and then, with 
a happy smile, to Launce. 

“ But, my darling,” persisted Mrs. Betterton, whose 
curiosity was increased, however much her alarm 
was overcome, by this announcement, “ you look quite 
effaree — quite too Uonrdi. 

“ I assure you I am quite well. This is my brother, 
Mr. Gerard Launce, Mrs. Betterton.” 

Mrs. Betterton made a little forward movement of 
her white shoulders, and courtesied, keeping her very 
fine eyes fixed upon Launce, until, with a few words of 
apology, he led Dorothy away. 

“ Where can we go to be alone, Dolly dear ? ” he 
asked. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


25 


Dorothy looked round the room hastily, and then 
said — 

“ If we could slip into the little room, near the piano, 
we could be quite alone ; the musicians are playing, 
and no one goes in there.” 

“ The most unnoticeable way of doing that will be 
to dance there — come.” 

Half a dozen turns brought them to the opening, 
and they passed through without observation. 

“ Oh, Gerard ! I am so glad to see you. I have been 
praying for you to come,” said Dorothy, and she held 
up her lips to kiss. He touched them gently with his, 
blushing as if he had been the girl and she the man. 
Her face was tinged with color, but it was only 
brought there by the pleasure of seeing a brother. He 
saw this, and said to himself, ‘(^Some kisses are 
sweeter when they are s tolen than when they are 
given.”/ 

“ And now let us talk,” said she, drawing her chair 
close to his, and nursing his hand in hers. “ Tell me 
what has brought you home so long before we ex- 
pected you ? ” 

“ Your letter, Dolly.” 

“ My letter ! What did I say ? I — I did not intend 
to tell you anything that would break up your holi- 
day.” 

Perhaps it was because you told me nothing, that 
I imagined so much.” 

“ Then it was merely imagination ” 

“ And superstition combined.” 

“ You superstitious ! ” 

“ Yes, I who scoff at Planchette, and make a mock 
of mediums. Do you know, Dolly, out there in the 
wilderness, where one sees not a human creature be- 
sides one’s own chums for weeks and weeks, and every- 
thing is still and white and desert-like, a man gets 
strange fancies, and one of mine was that you were not 
happy.” 

Dorothy looked at him with something of awe in 
her wide-opened eyes. 

“ And the pain of even fancying you were unhappy,” 


26 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


continued Launce, “ made me such a gruesome com- 
panion that my friends wouldn’t have me with them 
any longer.” 

“You would have come, thinking I wanted you, 
whether they wished it or not,” said Dorothy, gravely. 

“That shows how well you know your own 
worth.” 

“ It shows how well I know yours, you dear old 
Gerard,” she said, caressing his hand. 

“ What mysterious fingers you have, Dolly ; your 
gloved hand clings as none other does. I could tell 
you by your touch alone; and what wonderful eyes 
are yours ! They were black when we met ; when I 
told you of my superstition they were gray ; and now 
they are a lovely violet tinge of blue.” 

“ Never mind about my eyes. If it pleases you to 
see them, look, but talk at the same time.” 

“ And why should I not indulge in a brief paren- 
thesis upon so pleasant a subject ” 

“Because it is so like the cheap compliments of 
young gentlemen who think to make themselves agree- 
able by pointing out one’s personal peculiarities, and 
you can tell me something so much more interesting. 
Tell me about the fancies that you spoke of.” 

“On the day you wrote your last letter to me, I 
woke, thinking I heard a voice cry ‘ Help, help ! ’ 
Three weeks later — ^that is nearly four weeks since — I 
thought I heard the cry again.” 

“ You did hear it. Twice I have wakened, calling to 
you for help, and the last time was on New Year’s 
Day.” 

“ You little goose,” Launce said, smiling at Dorothy’s 
gravity. 

“No, I am not stupid; there is more in heaven and 
earth than we can explain. There was an article on 
this very subject in last week’s Spectator, in which the 
writer attributes it to a system of brain-waves.” 

“ Shall I tell you the scientific theory of my friend 
with regard to the voice I heard ? ” 

“ Do, Gerard.” 

“ He said it was a wolf. However, I had your letter 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 27 

and my own suspicions, and I have come home to ask 
you why you called me.” 

She looked at him without speaking, and seemed 
irresolute. 

“ I have hoped, always, Dolly, that I have been de- 
luding myself ; and the most grateful words of yours 
will be, ‘ Gerard, you’ve been stupid. Go back again. 
I don’t want you.’ Can you say them ?” 

She shook her head, still keeping silence. 

“ Then now tell me what your trouble is, my poor 
sweet sister.” 

She looked towards the opening furtively, and then 
asked — 

“ Does Mr. Launce know you are here ? ” 

“No ; I have seen neither him nor my aunt. I was 
told that they were both in the rooms downstairs ; but 
for the very reason that I refrained telegraphing from 
America to announce my return, I avoided meeting 
them until I had heard from you whether my fears were 
groundless or not.” 

Dorothy clasped her hands with convulsive tight- 
ness and dropped her chin upon her bosom. 

“ I have been praying for you to return, and now I 
dare not tell you why,” she murmured. 

“ I may help you, perhaps, by telling you what I have 
suspected. I know, or think I know, my aunt’s ar- 
rogant and exacting disposition. You are no longer a 
child to be restricted and led by her. You have as- 
serted your right to independence, and she is making 
life impossible in the old conditions.” 

“Oh no, no. You are wrong — quite wrong. No one 
could be kinder, more indulgent, more considerate 
than Mr. and Mrs. Launce. I wish for nothing better 
than to live as I have lived.” 

“ I do not understand you, Dolly dear.” 

“ I will tell you— — ” 

At that moment I entered the room, not knowing it 
was occupied. Miss Gordon made a movement of ter- 
ror at my unexpected entrance. I apologized, and was 
withdrawing, when Mr. Launce stopped me and said — 

“ I wish for five minutes’ privacy with my sister ; 


28 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


will you be good enough to give me the use of your 
room ? ” 

I acquiesced with pleasure, and returning to the 
piano, cautioned my associates not to enter the apart- 
ment. 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


29 


CHAPTER IV. 

A LIFE OF TERROR. 

Gerard returned to his seat beside Dorothy, and 
said — 

“ Now, Dolly, we are alone. Tell me what has hap- 
pened ! ” 

“ You have not seen Mr. and Mrs. Launce yet,” said 
Dorothy. “ If you had you would know that they have 
altered terribly.” 

“ Altered terribly, in six months ? ” 

“ In six months ; six years of ordinary suffering 
would not have changed them so greatly. The alter- 
ation is chiefly noticeable in Mr. Launce. His hair is 
no longer gray; it is as white as this handkerchief. 
Sometimes I doubt if his reason is not shaken.” 

“ He was always a feeble man, Dolly.” 

Dorothy shook her head. 

“ Inaction would result from increased feebleness ; 
but with him, activity of mind and body grows,” she 
said impressively. “ Stephen Launce never rests. No 
matter at what hour of the night I wake, I hear him 
wandering purposelessly from room to room, as if from 
sheer inability to remain in one place. It is the talk and 
terror of the servants. My maid left me, unable to 
overcome the dread occasioned by that ceaseless step. 
‘ Miss Gordon,’ she said, “ one night there will be an 
awful scream, and master will be found dead at the 
bottom of the staircase- well.’ ” 

“ Dolly, dear, you must not think seriously of an 
uneducated girl’s fears and conclusions.” 

“ I try to think lightly of them, but the same fears 
affect me ! ” 


30 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“I shall take you away for a time.” (Dorothy 
shook her head sadly.) “ My uncle cannot oppose any 
reasonable means of affording you relief. As for him, 
it seems to me that a physician’s advice is necessary.” 

“ Physicians have been consulted, but it is simply a 
pretence to divert suspicion from the real cause of Mr. 
Launce’s condition.” 

“ And what is the cause ? ” Gerard asked in a sub- 
dued tone of astonishment. 

“ I cannot tell.” 

“ One thing is certain ; you must be removed from 
this strain upon your imagination. All your color is 
gone, Dolly, and you are quite thin.” 

“ Every one in this household suffers. Even my 
aunt’s strong self-control is giving way. She suffers 
also!” 

“ No woman, however cold and worldly, could see 
her husband in the condition you describe, and not 
sympathize.” 

“ It is more than sympathy with his present rest- 
lessness that she feels. Stephen Launce stands in 
awful peril, and she knows that peril.” 

“ The peril of madness, I should think, poor old fel- 
low ! lias any physician been consulted who makes 
mental disease his study ? ” 

“Yes. And if you had seen the indifference with 
which he met that physician, you would know as well as 
I do that the consultation was, as I have said, a pretence, 
and that he knew more about the malady with which 
he was affected than the physician. Think of it, Gerard 
— if you were brought to believe that your intellect 
was affected by disease, could you meet the man who 
was to decide whether you would recover or end your 
days in a madhouse, without faltering in your voice, 
without trembling in your step ? No. Physicians are 
useless. I believe there is only one person in the world 
who can give him relief.” She bowed her head, sigh- 
ing. 

“ And who is that ? ” asked Launce. 

“I.” 

“ You, Dolly ! How ? ” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


31 


“ By marrying Sebastian Fleming.” 

“ Sebastian Fleming ! Who is he ? Fleming — 
Fleming — his partner in business ? ” 

“ He.” 

“ I have never seen the man. It cannot be the 
Fleming who was my father’s partner thirty years ago 
— his son, perhaps ? ” 

“ No ; he himself. Sebastian Fleming, an old man.” 

“ Great heavens ! ” exclaimed Gerard, starting back 
in his chair, and looking at the young girl’s pale, 
beautiful face in dismay. 

“ Girls do marry old men,” said Dorothy, coldly. 

“But not such girls as you.” It took him a few 
moments to realize that Sebastian Fleming might 
have qualities which could reconcile a girl to becoming 
his wife ; then he asked, with a little tremor in his 
voice : 

“ Do you like Sebastian Fleming, Dolly ? ” 

“ Like him ! ” echoed Dolly, and a quick shudder was 
her response. 

“ By George, you shall marry no one against your 
will ! ” Gerard said, striking his knee. “ I see now why 
you cried for help — my uncle and aunt are bringing 
pressure to force you to this unnatural union, for some 
sordid motive ” 

“ Do not be unjust, Gerard,” said Dorothy, interrupt- 
ing him. “ Mr. and Mrs. Launce have not actually 
asked me to marry Mr. Fleming — they have shown me 
nothing but kindness. They were never so generous, 
so considerate, so affectionate as they have been this 
last year.” 

“ Has this torture been going on for a year ? ” 

“Sebastian Fleming showed a — an attachment for 
me a year since ; he proposed to me the day after you 
left England.” 

“ You refused him, dear ?” 

“ Yes ; but he begged me to take time, and said he 
would not ask for a definite reply before my eighteenth 
birthday. That is in August.” 

“ That diamond on your finger ; did he give it to 
you ? ” Gerard asked savagely. 


32 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ No. It was a new year’s gift from Mr. Launce ; this 
necklet was given me by Mrs. Launce.” 

“ A bait, and nothing more,” growled Gerard. “ Go 
on, Dolly ; tell me what other obligations they have 
placed you under.” 

“ What do you mean, Gerard ? ” 

“What other generosity have they displayed on 
your behalf ? ” 

“ You know we lived in comparative retirement at 
Maidenhead. When my uncle’s mental distress made 
us all unhappy, he insisted upon my mind being 
diverted by the pleasure of society and London life. 
He took this house, made acquaintances, and has given 
a series of entertainments like this of to-night. Mrs. 
Launce is untiringly assiduous in finding people whom 
she thinks would be suitable friends for me.” 

“ And how has she succeeded ? ” 

“Not well, I am afraid,” replied Dolly, with a faint 
smile. “ I am rather cold, I fear ; and somehow I at 
times shrink from the lady whom she is most desirous 
of making my friend and companion.” 

“What is her name?” Gerard asked, suddenly 
raising himself ; he had been listening with his brows 
knit, his arms resting on his knees. 

“ Mrs. Betterton.” 

“ I thought so ! That very low-necked person who 
was so anxious to know who I was.” 

“ That was she.” 

“ By George, it is an infernal scheme ! I see through 
it all. Launce, from some interested motive, wishes 
you to marry his partner Fleming, and his wife assists. 
They keep you in seclusion, and naturally object to my 
influence with you. To keep me away, my aunt makes 
herself objectionable. On the last occasion of our meet- 
ing, when it was still more important that there should 
be no communication between us, she never left us 
alone for two minutes. As soon as I am out of the 
way, and not expected to return for twelve months, 
Fleming makes his proposal, fixing the date for his 
answer a couple of months before my return. They 
profess a sincere affection for you, buy you jewels, and, 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


33 


finally, bring you to London, giving you to understand 
that it is entirely for your happiness. Finally, Mrs. 
Launce endeavors to associate you intimately with a 
young woman of pronounced fastness, who has herself 
married a man old enough to be her father, and flirts 
with a dozen men while the wretclied husband sits 
helplessly regarding her amusement, in order that your 
principles may be sapped, and you may more readily 
marry an old man for the wretched freedom of flirting, 
as she does. It is shameful — infamous ! ” 

Gerard was excitable and quick ; he could not sit still 
thinking of what seemed a villainous attempt to cor- 
rupt and degrade the girl he loved. He sprang up 
from his chair — not clenching his fists and grinding his 
teeth — as is the habit of most heroes of romance, but 
shoving his hands deep in his pockets, and stuttering 
for words to express his indignation. Dorothy looked 
at him in alarm, and sat still, awed by the tempest she 
had evoked. He turned, and looking down in her 
frightened, girlish, delicate sweet face, he said in a 
tone of tremulous tenderness — 

“ Oh, Dolly, my little sister, it would break my heart 
if I thought you could become such a woman as Mrs. 
Betterton.” 

“ I don’t think I shall, Gerard. I don’t like the kind 
of men that pay attentions to Mrs. Betterton ; and I 
shall not neglect my husband, even if my husband is 
Sebastian Fleming.” 

“ Sebastian Fleming ! How can you think of him as 
a husband ? Have I not exposed the whole plot ? ” 

“ You have exposed nothing that I could not see ; but 
you have overlooked one thing which has an influence 
beyond any invention of Mr. Launce’s.” 

“ What do you refer to ? ” 

“ Your uncle’s inexplicable anxiety for this marriage. 
He watches me as a criminal might watch the face of 
his judge. When I feel that marriage with Sebastian 
Fleming is intolerable, he knows it by the expression 
of my face, and I see him tremble. When I say to my- 
self, ‘ I will marry Sebastian Fleming to give rest and 
peace to this poor suffering man,’ he reads the merciful 

3 


34 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


yielding in my eyes, and looks at me with ineffable 
love and gratitude. Sometimes, when T show repug- 
nance to tlie proposed visit of jNIr. Fleming, he regards 
me in silent supplication, which I must have a heart 
of stone to resist. There is a language independent of 
words existing between us ; but one thing that language 
fails to tell me, yet which he wishes me to know. One 
day Sebastian Fleming had sent me an invitation to ac- 
company him to a philharmonic concert. I hesitated 
for some time, at length, yielding to the silent entreaty 
of my guardian, I sat down and wrote to accept. Your 
uncle took the letter from my hand, and covered it with 
kisses. Then, for a moment, he seemed as if about to 
explain this delight, to tell the secret which I tell you 
he seems anxious for me to know. He heard his wife’s 
voice in the passage outside, and left the room without 
a word. Can a merely sordid motive, such as you sug- 
gest, account for such passionate entreaty, such wild 
and terrible suspense as he endures ? Look at these 
diamonds, this house, these entertainments. If he had 
a mercenary motive, would he lavish money in this 
way ?” 

Gerard sat down in the chair, facing Dorothy, and 
fell into his old attitude of thought, unable to explain 
that which was, in fact, inexplicable. His back was to 
the opening. 

Suddenly Dorothy rose, and he heard a thin, quiver- 
ing voice at his back saying — 

“ Don’t move, my dearest, don’t move. Excuse me. 
The musical gentleman, with the piccolo, said you were 
here ; he should have added, you were not alone. Don’t 
move ; I shall ” 

Gerard had turned round in his chair, and he and 
the speaker were face to face. For a moment neither 
moved nor spoke. Gerard saw his uncle, and knew it 
must be he. Yet the change in his appearance was 
so great that he could hardly bring himself to believe 
it could be the same man he had seen but six months 
before. 

“ Uncle ! ” he said, in a tone of astonishment. 

The old man, with his eyes fixed on the young one, 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


35 


could not part his lips ; he groped with his hand 
behind for some support, caught the side of the table, 
and tottered back to it. Leaning with both hands 
upon it, yet still keeping his eyes on Gerard, he said, 
in a voice hardly above a whisper — 

“ God help me ! ” 


36 


FOB LOVE AND HONOE, 


CHAPTER V. 

STEPHEN LAUNCE. 

Gerard was deeply shocked by the alteration he saw 
in his uncle’s appearance. Impulsive and generous, 
he could not look upon that face, marked with suffer- 
ing and terror, unmoved. It did not enter his mind to 
consider whether Stephen Launce had sinned and 
merited the punishment he bore ; he saw only that 
here was a wrecked man who, as if despairing of 
human assistance, called upon heaven for aid ; seeing 
that, he would have been wanting in manly instinct to 
have held back and questioned the advisability of offer- 
ing sympathy and help. 

“ What is the matter, sir ? ” he cried, running to the 
side of Stephen Launce, and giving him the support of 
his powerful hands. “ Sit down in this chair — there — 
so. You feel better now ? ” 

Stephen Launce nodded, and held out his hand. 
Gerard took it. It was a dead hand — heavy, and cold, 
and nerveless. 

“ You will let me give you a little spirit. I am afraid 
my unexpected appearance has startled you.” 

“Yes, yes — that is it, Gerard. I am a little out of 
sorts — the liver, you know — and the slightest thing 
upsets me. Never mind the spirits. I shall be well 
directly. What have you come home for ? ” he asked 
quickly, looking up with eager suspicion, and then 
averting his eyes as suddenly. 

If there was one thing more than another that Ger- 
ard failed in, it was lying, and so, after stuttering a 
moment or two, he said — 

“Well, sir, the fact is, I had a vague idea that Dolly 
was not happy, and so I came home to satisfy my un- 
quiet mind.” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


37 


“ He, he, he ! ” laughed Stephen. “ Not happy ! 
What a droll idea ! You are happy — aren’t you, 
Dorothy dear ? ” 

He looked up in her face with that appeal in his eyes 
of which Gerard had so recently heard. 

“ Quite gay — aren’t you, my child? Oh, you should 
have seen her dancing to-night ; it did one’s heart good 
to see her. There’s scarcely a dull night at home — 
is there, Dorothy ? Concerts, and balls, and theatres, 
and then the little entertainments we are making at 
home here — conversaziones, music evenings, impromptu 
dances, and what not. My health has been somewhat 
troublesome to every one, and has made my dear 
Dorothy a little anxious ; but we are getting better 
again now ; quite strong and happy, dear — hey ? ” 

He caught hold of her hand, and looked into her eyes, 
while the muscles of his cheeks moved convulsively 
between the emotions of hope and fear. 

“ Oh yes ; we shall all be strong and well and content 
in a few months,” he continued, “ as soon as my liver 
gets better again, you know, Gerard. I must have some 
excitement — something to divert my thoughts from 
business, as the physician says ; and as the business is 
expanding every year, I can afford to spend money 
on these innocent gaieties and aesthetic decorations, 
you know, Gerard. I did wrong to keep dear Dorothy 
mewed up at Maidenhead. I am sure the house was 
damp — yes, damp; that accounts for my liver going 
wrong. It would naturally — would it not, Gerard? 
You know something of medicine. Don’t you think 
that possible ; a damp house — hey ? ” 

“ It is possible.” 

“ Ha, now we agree. Bless me, how nice it is to be 
all together again — agreeing one with the other, and 
enjoying this little reunion ! I had no idea how de- 
lightful society was — with its lilies, and sunflowers, 
and dados, and curious dresses. And the people are 
so charming. None of the old conventionalities — no 
religion, very little faith, hardly any charity, and nearly 
all sunflowers. Young men don’t marry ; young mar- 
ried ladies do just as they please; and there is no 


38 


FOE LOVE AND ITONOE. 


such thing as a romantic attachment in the old-fashioned 
way. No one thinks seriously of anything but how to 
be witty. Things that used to be right in my young 
days are wrong now, and as much is right that used to 
be wrong.” 

“ Every man and woman must still be able to dis- 
criminate between right and wrong, ho^\ ever the fash- 
ions change.” 

“ I am not so sure about that, Gerard ; Mrs. Better- 
ton told me the other day, that she shouldn’t attempt 
to decide whether her actions were right or wrong 
until she had seen a revised copy of the Ten Com- 
mandments.” 

Stephen Launce’s volubility, which pained Gerard 
and Dorothy alike, was checked at this point. The 
drapery parted, and Mrs. Launce entered the room. In 
the first moment of seeing Gerard she seemed to lose 
her self-possession, stopping abruptly in her advance, 
and breathing with increased quickness, as though she 
had been menaced with a blow ; but, recovering her- 
self, she stood perfectly still, waiting for Gerard to 
explain his uninvited presence in her house. 

Gerard felt indisposed to offer any apology for his 
intrusion. He never had liked Mrs. Launce, and as 
sympathy led him to exonerate his uncle, so prejudice 
excited the suspicion of his aunt’s culpability. He was 
quite prepared to “ have it out at once with her,” as he 
said to himself — to tell her truthfully exactly what his 
impressions and feeling were. And I may here observe, 
without detracting from the merits of Mr. Gerard 
Launce, that he has ever shown himself more remark- 
able for prompt action than for wise forbearance. He 
made a stiff bow to Mrs. Launce, and waited. 

But Stephen Launce rose quickly from his chair, and 
stepping between the two, said, with nervous haste — 

“ My dearest, don’t you recognize our nephew, dear 
Gerard ? Come, my love ; no company manners with 
Gerard — our own Gerard.” 

Mrs. Launce caught the look of entreaty in her hus- 
band’s face, and said — 

“ The only regret I can have is that Mr. Gerard de- 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 39 

prived us of the pleasure of sending him an invitation 
to my house. Have you been in London long ?” 

“ I landed at Liverpool this morning — my telegram 
to Maidenhead ” 

“ Oh, no apologies, my boy,” said Stephen Launce, 
patting his shoulder ; “ no apologies. What need of 
ceremony is there between us?” And then, as if to 
preclude any disagreement, he added : “ But come out 

into the drawing-room. They are playing a waltz, and 
I have no doubt you would rather be dancing than 
talking to a couple of old people like your aunt and 
me. Come, let me see you dance — take Dorothy for 
your partner. Away with you both ! Show him your 
bright side, Dorothy — let him see that his fears were 
misplaced.” 

Dorothy and Gerard exchanged glances, and then 
acted upon the suggestion. 

It was an agreeable means of terminating a painful 
interview. As they waltzed off, Stephen Launce stood 
by the piano, smiling after them, and beating time with 
one hand upon the other. Mrs. Launce took his right 
arm to put an end to this exhibition ; but, unconscious 
of her, he still followed them with his eyes, and beat 
time with his disengaged hand on the arm she had 
placed through his. 

“ Poor old fellow ! ” murmured Gerard. 

“You pity him ?” said Dorothy. 

“ With all my heart.” 

Dorothy made no response. 

“lam confident of one thing, Dolly.” (Waltzing 
does not allow of long sentences.) 

“What is that?” 

“ Whatever my uncle’s secret anxiety may be, my 
aunt is the cause of it.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” 

“ I am sure. Can you doubt it ? ” 

Dorothy did not answer. It seemed to her that 
Gerard must know better than she — he being so much 
older, and a man ; otherwise, she should have told him 
that she did doubt it. 

“ Anyone could see that. She has some mean motive 


40 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


of jealousy or revenge ; a woman of her kind would do 
anything to gratify those feelings.” 

Dorothy wondered for whom her aunt could enter- 
tain such feelings. 

“ She always did hate me,” continued Gerard. 

“How could it gratify her jealous or revengeful 
feelings to marry me to Mr. Fleming ? ” asked Dorothy, 
with childish simplicity. 

“ She knows how unhappy it would make me to see 
you the wife of a detestable old brute like that.” 

“ I thought you said you did not know Mr. Fleming.” 

“No. But I hate him all the same. You dislike 
him.” 

“ I feel still such a child. I am only just beginning 
to see life. How can I judge people so much older 
than myself ? Mr. Fleming may be a very excellent 
man.” 

“ Confound his excellence ! ” muttered Gerard. 

“ I am living in a new world. I mistrust my own 
feelings. Men and women, yet awhile, are to me what 
they seem rather than what they are. I still think 
that everything which is beautiful must be good, and 
everything bad that is hideous.” 

“ Then this Fleming is hideous,” said Gerard, with 
savage satisfaction. 

“Not hideous to others, perhaps ; but he is certainly 
repulsive to my present taste.” 

“ Repulsive ! In what way ? ” 

“I cannot explain. When you see him you will 
know what I mean.” 

“ Is he here ? ” 

“ In the house. I cannot see him in this room.” 

“ I will find him, and know more about him before I 
leave. As you say, he may be a good man.” 

The tone of voice in which Gerard spoke left little 
room to hope that he would find virtue in Mr. Fleming. 

Dorothy was silent for a few moments. Then she 
said — 

“ If he is a good man, and likely to make me happy 
after all, how would my marriage gratify Mrs. Launce’s 
ill-will towards you ? ” 


FOB LOVE AND HO NOB. 


41 


Gerard looked at the lovely little face, now flushed 
with waltzing and the pleasure of talking to him, and 
was about to draw her still a little closer and whisper, 
“ Because she sees that I love you, and that it would 
break my heart to lose you,” when a clumsy foot was 
set upon Dorothy’s dress, and away went a yard and 
a half of balayeuse. 

He led her to a seat, but before her skirt was in a 
condition for the waltz to be continued, the music 
stopped. A gentleman, to whom Dorothy had prom- 
ised the previous dance, came up, and while Ger- 
ard was impatiently waiting for him to be shaken 
off, another advanced and claimed her promise for the 
succeeding mazurka. Finally Mrs. Launce joined the 
party with Mrs. Betterton, whom she fixed upon 
Gerard, and left for him to get rid of as he might. 

“ The mazurka at once, if you please,” she said, as 
she passed me at the piano, and went to the side of her 
husband. He was standing by the entrance to our 
refreshment-room, straining his eyes to catch sight of 
his nephew and Mss Gordon, as the moving crowd 
afforded occasional glimpses. He seemed to be quite 
oblivious to everything but them. The muscles of his 
face were in continual agitation, and his lips moved as 
if he were repeating words to himself. The peculiarity 
of his behavior had excited my curiosity, and, as I 
turned on my stool to the piano, I cast a glance towards 
him. Mrs. Launce had taken his arm, and was leading 
him from the room. 

We played the prelude, and I lost sight of the per- 
sons to whose existence I then attached such slight im- 
portance, but who were to be actors with me in a drama 
of awful consequence. 


42 


FOB LOVE AND HON OB. 


CHAPTER VT. 

MRS. BETTERTOIf. 

Gerard watched Dorothy carried away by her part- 
ner, and followed her with his jealous eyes until she 
was lost in the throng of dancers ; then he fell into 
his old attitude, and with his arms upon his knees 
and his body throAvn forwards, he gave himself up 
to the train of speculative thought prompted by the 
strange preceding events. The light touch of a fan 
upon his arm caused him to turn ; he found Mrs. 
Betterton regarding him with an amused expression 
upon her hold, pretty face. He had utterly forgotten 
her, and the duty which common politeness imposed 
upon him of paying her some attention. 

“Your hack is admirable, but I prefer studying your 
face,” she said. 

“ I beg your pardon,” stammered Gerard, “ I 
really ” 

“ You really forgot all about me. That is a great 
compliment to Miss Gordon, hut a small compensation 
to offer me for your neglect. You have not asked me 
to dance.” 

“ I concluded your programme was full.” 

“ I never use a programme ; it gets filled before 
the agreeable partner is found. I dare say Miss Gor- 
don has discovered that fact.” 

Gerard objected to this frequent reference to Dorothy, 
and with difficulty forced himself to ask Mrs. Better- 
ton to pardon his unintended rudeness, and give him 
the pleasure of dancing his mazurka. 

“ You may take me round to one of the side- rooms 
since you are so eager to atone for the past,” said IMrs. 
Betterton, with good-humored sarcasm ; “ I want to 
talk to you, and here I am afraid you would lose the 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


48 


thread of my conversation whenever Miss Gordon 
passed.” 

With little relish for the Launce took her 

out of the dance into one of the adjoininr^ rooms, 
and seated himself on the causeuse by her side. 

“ To begin with, Mr. Launce, shall we talk in the 
language of friends or acquaintances?” asked Mrs. 
Betterton. 

“ Will you explain the distinction?” 

“ Shall we be quite straightforward, and say what 
we think, or very polite, and leave our meaning to be 
guessed ? ” 

“ I very much prefer to be straightforward.” 

“ Very well, then, will you tell me what reason you 
have for disliking me ? ” 

“ Is it a fact that I dislike you ? ” 

“ Certainly. You have a charmingly honest face 
that makes no pretence of disguising your feelings.” 

“ I think it will be best to discontinue a course of 
conversation which must be unpleasant to both of us,” 
Gerard said, half rising from his seat. 

“ Sit down, Mr. Launce. I have something of more 
importance in view than a merely pleasant conversa- 
tion, as you may imagine by my giving you the pref- 
erence of my society.” 

Gerard resumed his seat with bent brows. 

“ We will assume that you dislike me,” said Mrs. 
Betterton. 

“ If you please.” 

“ Then I have the right to demand your reasons for 
disliking me.” 

“ I do not feel bound to give an explanation.” 

“ But you are. You would nob strike a man with 
out telling him the cause of your enmity.” 

“ I do not understand you, Mrs. Betterton. I have 
not struck you.” 

“ You have. When I approached you wibh Mrs. 
Launce, Miss Gordon ^vas standing by your side. She 
purposely avoiderl my eyes ; she moved away in order 
that she might not be forced to speak to me. A wo- 
man is quick to catch these signs of temper. During 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


A\ 

the past eight or ten days I have seen a great deal of 
Miss Gordon ; and the friendship that has sprung up 
between us is particularly dear to me. I like her, as I 
like no other woman, for she seems to me the perfec- 
tion of feminine sweetness and purity. She has told 
me a good deal about you — speaking in high terms of 
your strength, and truth, and physical beauty ; but in 
still greater admiration of your wisdom. Before she 
saw you this evening, her affection showed no falling 
off ; now am I wrong in supposing that her sudden de- 
fection is due to some sage objection you have made 
to me ? ” 

Launce grew red to the roots of his hair, and said — 

“ I admit that I expressed a feeling of dislike to 
you.” 

“ In that case, you can no longer refuse to tell me 
why you dislike me.” 

“ I confess that I formed an opinion of you entirely 
from appearances.” 

“ Y ou knew nothing i)reviously against my charac- 
ter ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ You drew your conclusions entirely from the mo- 
mentary view of me in our first introduction.” 

“ I did.” 

“ I think I shall be, able to convince you presently 
that those conclusions were unjust — unjust and exag- 
gerated as the first impressions of most men are. Men 
are not quick of apprehending character as women are ; 
and we poor women do not expect them to be just in 
their first estimates ; but what w’e do expect of men is, 
that they shall be generous. And I ask you, Mr. 
Launce, if you think it generous to prejudice the heart 
of a young girl against a woman you judge so hastily, 
and to whom that girl might be the only friend in the 
world ? ” 

There was a tear in Mrs. Betterton’s eye, and her chin 
twitched as she spoke. Launce grew pale as he dis- 
covered the error he had committed, and said, in a tone 
of honest contrition — 

“ I did very wrong, Mrs. Betterton. Believe me, I am 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 45 

very sorry. I had no idea of the mischief a careless 
word might do.” 

“ In fact you were unwise,” Mrs. Betterton said with 
a quick sigh, and recovering her habitual cheerfulness. 
“ W ell, now, Mr. Launce, will you undeceive Miss Gor- 
don, or shall I endeavor to show her that you are not 
quite so sapient as she has hitherto thought you ? ” 

“ You cannot think that I will permit her to remain 
in ignorance ? ” 

“ In ignorance — of what ? ” 

“ Of — of the fact that I was unjust and wrong in my 
impression.” 

Mrs. Betterton looked at him a moment in silence ; 
then her eyes twinkled mischievously, and she burst 
into a little laugh. 

“ How charmingly inconsistent you are,” she said. 
“ What do you know to convince you that your first 
impression was wrong ? You have only your second 
estimate to counteract the first ; and both formed from 
appearances which may all be delusive. Don’t you 
think it will be well to examine my character a little 
closer before you represent me either as a wingless 
angel with a tail, or a tailless angel with wings ? ” 

“ You make me feel my own shortcomings.” 

“ Yes; your appearance quite satisfies my thirst for 
vengeance. Now, Mr. Launce, let us make a critical 
inquiry into my condition, in order that you may feel 
justified in restoring Miss Gordon to her former posi- 
tion of friendship with me. What are the faults that 
excited your disapproval the first moment you saw me ? 
Do not be more reluctant to tell me than you were to 
tell my friend.” 

Gerard winced. 

“ I have my faults, as you have — as every man and 
woman whom we meet in everyday life has,” continued 
Mrs. Betterton; “but an inability to face the truth is 
not amongst my failings. Nothing you tell me honest- 
ly, race to face,"can hurt me ; for if I know your cen- 
sure to exceed my demerits I shall attribute it to that 
want of wisdom which you acknowledge as your defi- 
ciency.” 


46 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ Without entering into details, I must tell you, since 
you insist upon it, that your dress and behavior led 
me to believe that you were fast and vulgar.” 

This avowal gavo Gerard more pain to make than Mrs. 
Betterton to hear. The perspiration stood in beads 
upon his forehead ; it seemed to him the most cruel act 
of his life, yet he was conscious that it was not more 
cruel th in the unconsidered act of prejudicing Dorothy 
against lier friend. 

Mrs. Betterton sat unmoved, silently weighing his 
words for a few moments, and then said — 

“ Your judgment was not unjust, Mr. Launce. I am 
decolletee., and though my dress is precisely the same as 
those of many ladies in society whose delicacy is un- 
doubted, the fact is unaltered that this style of dress is 
immodest. All people are vain of some supposed excel- 
lence — one of his birth, another of his education, a third 
of his intellect ; and I am proud of my pretty arms and 
shoulders, having neither birth, education, intellect, nor 
anything else to boast of. A number of men were alDout 
me. That should point rather to their want of taste 
than to my demerits. I am vulgar, very likely ; that is 
the result of deficient education. There are certain re- 
finemencs which I find it difficult to acquire — that nice 
distinction of taste, for example. An amiable woman 
I love, before I know whether she has money enough to 
deserve such esteem ; a man who is honest and true 
seems to me admirable, although he may work for his 
living ; I could sympathize with a nursemaid in distress ; 
so you see I have not even that contempt for the vulgar 
which might raise me above vulgarity.” 

Again Gerard winced. 

“ And I want tact, Mr. Launce. I am like a young 
shopkeeper who has not yet learnt the art of making 
his shop- window attractive to the class of customers he 
desires. I oughtto have my showy goods well displayed 
in the front, to conceal the poverty of the stock behind ; 
but instead of that, I show what I have with so little art 
that the first passer-by can see at a glance there’s noth- 
ing in the Avhole shop worthy inspection.” 

Gerard suffered — not from the caustic sarcasms at 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


47 


his expense, but from the knowledge that he deserved 
them. 

“ I shall improve in time. I can already talk about 
art, of which 1 know nothing; and I am learning a list 
of French adjectives and participles which are already 
of great service. I am studying the qualificatioiis of a 
lady from the novels of those writers of my own sex who 
profess to know most about it. Ouida has opened my 
eyes a good deal. I begin to know what is ‘ bourgeoise ’ 
and what ‘ good form,’ albeit I have not yet worked my- 
self up to her standard of excellence. And now, having 
fully admitted my vulgarity, and my fastness also — for 
fastness seems to me only another form cf vulgarity — 
let us pass on to my other faults.” 

“ I know of none.” 

Mrs. Betterton gave — or pretended to give — a deep 
sigh of relief. 

“ You will discover them if you know me longenough,” 
she said. “But those you have found out are suffi- 
ciently serious.” 

“Mrs. Betterton, I have wronged you in thought and 
in act. I cannot tell you how deeply I regret my haste ; 
it is so easy to repent of one’s sins when they are found 
out. I must rely upon your generosity for my sin- 
cerity to be credited. The only proof I can give of my 
repentance is to ask you to consider me henceforth as a 
friend.” 

“That is not so easy to do. Friendship, and more 
than that, is offered me frequently by men who, if they 
could, would avoid introducing me to their wives. That 
is a kind of friendship that I do not like — that is not 
worth accepting. When you give me your friendship, 
yf'u must accede to me an equality with yourself. Friend- 
ship is a sham, and a wicked pretence without equality. 
In being my friend, you must agree to my friendship 
with your friends. Now, are you willing that I should 
be intimate with IMiss Gordon ; that she should visit 
me, and I her ; that we should go together in public 
places, such as flower-shows, for instance, where she 
would be subject to observation and criticism ? An- 
swer with your heart. Should you have no misgiving, 
no doubt, no regret ? Take time to answer.” 


48 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR, 


Launce needed it. 

“ I understand your feelings, and I think I know your 
character ; at any rate as well as you know mine. In 
your eyes there is something sacred about her youth- 
ful innocence and simplicity, and you would keep her 
forever innocent and simple ; albeit she cannot be 
youthful always. The other day I was in a museum, 
looking at a marble statuette, and a connoisseur was 
pointing out the beautiful soft and mellow tone given to 
the stone by age ; and it struck me then how in the young 
days of this statuette its purity must have been guarded, 
how carefully it must have been removed from that 
exposure which in time was to render it more precious. 
Tou, if it were possible, would put Miss Gordon under 
a glass-case. If you suffered her and me to be ultimate, 
it would be with forbearance and from principle rather 
than freely and from real friendly feeling for me. There- 
fore, Mr. Launce, I will not exact an answer to my ques- 
tion to-night, and we will not swear eternal friendship 
on the spot to show the sincerity of your regard for me. 
You will know me better in time, and be less exacting 
towards Miss Gordon.” 

“ Exacting ! ” 

“ That is the word. Do you think you could be gen- 
erous towards the girl you love ? ” 

“ I hope so.” 

“That shows that you have never loved before. 
What a miserable life you would lead her during your 
engagement, and the first year of your married condi- 
tion ! ” 

“ Do you think so ? ” 

“ I am sure of it. Happily, she has not the slightest 
feeling of passion towards you yet awhile, and is not 
likely to be brought to the point of engagement for 
some time — at least, with you. Do you know why I 
came here to-night ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ To see the other lover.” 

“ ]Mr. Sebastian Fleming ? ” 

“ Yes. I am curious to know what kind of old man 
he is. Can you tell me anything about him ? ” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


49 


Launce was about to say that Sebastian Fleming was 
an old brute, when, remembering the pit into which he 
had already fallen, he restrained himself, and said — 

“ Miss Gordon tells me he is repulsive ; I know no 
more.” 

“ Repulsive is a vague term, which leaves so much 
to the imagination,” said Mrs. Betterton. “ I used to 
think bull-dogs repulsive, but since they have become 
fashionable, and we know more about them, I find them 
exceedingly lovable. It may be so with Mr. Fleming.” 

“ You surely do not advocate the marriage of a young 
delicate creature like Dorothy with a man like Flem- 
ing?” 

“ How can I tell yet ? I have not seen him.” 

« But ” 

Launce stopped short. 

“ You were about to say that young wives and old 
husbands are not always happy together ; now, are all 
young wives and young husbands ? Difference of age 
is of far less importance than difference of temper and 
disposition. I would sooner see Miss Gordon married 
to an amiable, good old gentleman, than to a passion- 
ate and too impulsive young one.” 

“ Will you tell me why ? ” 

“ Because of that very simplicity and youthfulness 
which you wish to preserve in Miss Gordon. She is 
willing to sacrifice herself. From a motive of compas- 
sion for the sufferings of Mr. Stephen Launce, she will 
marry Sebastian Fleming ! ” 

“ She shall not,” said Launce emphatically. 

“ Or, from motives of fear, she may marry you.” 

“ Fear of whom ? ” 

“Of you. Your passion would frighten her. The 
first time you rushed out of her presence in a fit of 
stupid jealousy, she would picture you blowing out, or 
trying to blow out, the brains from your head, and call 
you back to give you her hand ; but the result would 
be worse than if she married Mr. Fleming. She would 
marry without love r her coldness would exasperate you, 
produce coldness on your side in time, and lead to all 
the consequent evils. You could not possibly be happy. 


50 


FOR LOVE AKD HONOR. 


In time, the love which at some period of our life must 
appear, would spring up, not for you, but for one who , 
had not embittered her life, and made her regret her 
marriage, and then — ” (Mrs. Betterton shrugged her 
shoulders) ; “ whereas, if she marries Mr. Fleming, he 
will be wise and cool enough to bear with her during 
her cold period — always supposing that Mr. Fleming 
is good and lovable — and when love springs in her 
heart, it will probably twine tenderly round him Avho 
has shown forbearance and tenderness towards her.” 

“You presume that I am impulsive and passionate.” 

“ Impulsive I know you are, and I believe you would 
be passionate also. If I am not mistaken in what I see 
and know, you Avould love Miss Gordon with all your 
heart and soul.” 

“ Would not that love ensure my tenderness and 
forbearance towards Dorothy after our marriage ? ” 

“ No. A man can love without return before marriage, 
but it is not the same afterwards. I know. If you wish 
to make Miss Gordon happy, and be happy yourself, 
wait. Mr. Fleming, I am told, is old ; Miss Gordon is 
young ; marry her when she is a widow. I do not speak 
in a flippant spirit. The subject is too serious for jesting. 
If you marry her now you will only escape misery by 
chance.” 

“ Is this the counsel you have given Dorothy ?” 

“You have never been considered as a possible hus- 
band. Miss Gordon has spoken of you frequently, and 
I concluded, from her description of you, that you were 
a confirmed old bachelor — a wise, thoughtful, and affec- 
tionate brother, whose advice she could rely upon and 
follow safely. She has never thought of you as a lover, I 
am certain. She is young, even, for her age — the seclu- 
sion in which she has lived has limited her knowledge 
to a narrow circle. She has had, literally, no experience ; 
and, coming suddenly face to face with the gravest 
event of a woman’s life, she is perplexed and helpless. 
Her nature is soft and dependent. She feels the 
necessity of guidance ; it is for that reason that she, 
in ycur absence, has placed such confidence and trust 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


51 


in me. Had you not appeared this evening, I should 
probably have decided her fate to-night.” 

“ And you would have advised her to marry Sebastian 
Fleming ! ” 

“ That depends. If Mr. Fleming is as Mrs. Stephen 
Launce has described him, I should. But certain 
remarks of Miss Gordon, and my own observations, 
have led me to mistrust Mrs. Launce. She is too anxious 
for this marriage, and, I fancy, has some personal motive 
for it.” 

“ And how do you intend to judge wdiether Mr. Flem- 
ing will be a good husband for Dorothy? ” 

“ By what I see. Will you help me ? We should not 
be at variance since our common object is Miss Gordon’s 
happiness.” 

“ I have shown myself a bad judge of character, 
and I am not likely to look favorably on my aged 
rival.” 

“You may be able to counteract my too favor- 
able bias. Mr. Fleming is in the house,” she said, 
closing her fan, and casting a glance round the 
room to see if any one answering to the description 
she had received of him were present — “and if it 
is agreeable to you we will look for him at once 
and ” 

She stopped abruptly, and with a stifled cry of terror 
laid her hand upon Gerard’s arm. She turned her face 
to him — it was quite pale — and made a quick significant 
movement with her frightened eyes towards a man who 
stood midway between them and the opening to the 
drawing-room. 

Leaning forward, Gerard looked across her, and his 
eyes rested, stupefied, upon the object which had alarmed 
Mrs. Betterton. 


52 


FOE LOVF Aj\1) HONOE. 


CHAPTER VII. 

SEBASTIAN FLEMING. 

The man whose appearance had at once made so 
marked an impression on the minds of Mrs. Betterton 
and Gerard was looking into the drawing-room, where 
a quadrille was being danced. He stood under a 
hanging candelabra, and presented a profile view to 
them — a fragile-looking, very small old man. His 
right hand grasped the crutch of an ebony stick upon 
which he leant ; his left arm was crossed upon his back 
as if to sustain the equilibrium of his bent body. Dis- 
tance, and his position, precluded an exact view of his 
features ; hut the hooked nose, the retreating forehead, 
the black, prominent eyebrows, contrasting strongly 
with the waxen, yellowish tint of his complexion, 
were sufficiently pronounced to call for observation. 
^Moving his head to the right and left, raising and then 
dropping it, as he followed the movement of a dancer 
in the adjoining room, he looked like a vulture waiting 
to be fed. 

But even this unpleasant likeness was not, in itself, 
sufficient to convey that sensation of repugnance which 
both Mrs. Betterton and Gerard felt in looking at the 
old man. There was in his manner and general appear- 
ance an indefinable something which gave him a char- 
acter quite apart from that of ordinary men. He 
seemed the embodiment of a fabulous conception — a 
ghoul, a vampire, or one of those mythical beings 
whose life is extended beyond the term even of the 
most aged, and is sustained by unholy means. He re- 
called to Gerard’s mind the conception he had formed of 
Ahasuerus — he who pushed our Saviour from his door, 
and was doomed to live and wander through eternity. 

As the music ceased, and the dancers mingled in an 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


undistinguishable throng, the old man turned from the 
entrance, and looked around him for a seat. There was 
a chair within a couple of feet of Mrs. Betterton. lie 
made towards it, nodding his head like a paralytic, and 
making unmeaning grimaces with the loose muscles 
of his face as he walked. 

“ Will you move ? ” Gerard asked. 

Mrs. Betterton shook her head, still unconciously 
holding his arm, as if for j)rotection. The fascination 
which many women find in creatures and things that 
inspire them with terror, made her unwilling to move. 

He felt the chair, as if to ascertain that it was firm, 
and fidgeted his eyeglass, his handkerchief, and stick 
with the characteristic indecision of an old man ; then, 
muttering a few unintelligible words, he slowly seated 
himself, with circumspection, and rigid, unelastic move- 
ment of his limbs. The chair was placed so that he 
could command a view of the drawing-room through 
the opening ; he put his stick between his knees, folded 
his hands upon his crutch, and resting his chin upon 
them he looked straight before him, blinking his eyes 
like a cat that is watching for its prey. He seemed en- 
tirely unconscious of the scrutiny of Gerard and Mrs 
Betterton ; sometimes his thin lips would part, and 
through the palpably artificial teeth a sound escaped as 
if he were muttering a word. Age had bent and con- 
tracted his figure ; but it was plain that he had never 
been even of the middle stature of men. His thinness, 
the smallness of his limbs, were only exaggerated by 
the attenuating effect of age. He was dressed in the 
ordinary evening dress of a gentleman ; but the folds 
of the cloth seemed to reveal, rather than conceal the 
anatomy of his limbs. One could trace the thigh bone, 
the large patella, the fieshless leg, and fancy there was 
a skeleton, rather than a living man, beneath the gar- 
ment. He wore diamond studs of unusual size and bril- 
liancy. From his open collar the throat projected at 
an angle with his chest, a throat loosely covered with 
a skin wrinkled and grained like the throat of a buz- 
zard. The face was angular and deeply hollowed. The 
chin and temples stood out prominently ; the eyes were 


54 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


lost in the deep yellow orbits ; upon the high cheek 
bones the skin was tightly stretched, and showed the 
tiny red vems below ; elsewhere it covered his face in 
a thousand fissures and wrinkles, yellow and fine like 
the folds in a sheet of parchment that has been twisted 
up and placed under pressure. His lips were so thin 
that they looked only like a long wrinkle in the 
straight space between his nose and protruding chin. 
A dark curled wig came low down on his retreating 
forehead, and this, with his painted eyebrows and 
false teeth, increased rather than diminished the repul- 
siveness of his face. To these artificial additions, his 
face owed much of its unnatural, inhuman character. 
With falling lips and a bare head — hideous as it must 
have been — his face might have escaped notice ; but the 
contrast of white teeth with that yellow old skin, of 
brown curls with that withered cheek, courted and fixed 
attention. Perhaps, also, something of that appearance 
of excesssive age was due to the air of youthful vanity 
conveyed by these curls, by the many lustrous gems 
upon his bony fingers, and the watch-chain doubled and 
worn about his neck, just as the antiquity of a ruin is 
marked by the growth upon its crumbling walls. 

The expression of his face was that of the skull 
beneath it — a negative expression, which had no love, 
nor sympathy, nor human hopes ; no hatred even, and 
no fear in it — nothmg but the set, cold, implacable, 
senseless grin of death. 

“ Take me away ; I can look at him no longer,” Mrs. 
Betterton said, still keeping her eyes upon that grim 
face. Launce was about to rise, but she suddenly 
tightened her grasp upon his arm and restrained him. 
The old man had caught the sound of her voice, and 
slowly turned his head to look at her. He fixed his 
eyes upon her with that dull persistency that one sees 
alike in the regard of the very old and the very young. 
His eyes, close together and deep-set, looked like noth- 
ing but patches of tarnished mother-of-pearl. 

Having satisfied his curiosity, regardless of the un- 
concealed terror in Mrs. Betterton’s face as she met 


FOB LOVE AXD HOXOB. 


his gaze, he returned his chin once more to its rest 
upon his folded hands over the stick. 

Gerard gave his arm to IMrs. Betterton and they left 
the room, passing by the old man, who, however, took 
no notice of their movements. 

“ Vf ho can he be ? ” Gerard asked, in a low voice. 

“ Sebastian Fleming, I believe.” 

“ Oh, impossible ! Who could think of marrying 
Dorothy to him ? He is more horrible than I conceived. 
Dorothy would not admit that Sebastian Fleming was 
hideous ; the man we have just quitted is.” 

“ Is'ot more hideous than many old men. But he is 
repulsive to an extraordinary degree ; and Miss Gordon, 
who would say a good word for the Evil One him- 
self if it were possible, admits that Mr. Flemmg is 
repulsive.” 

“ Where is Dorothy ? ” 

“ With Mr. Stephen Launce, probably. If my sus- 
picions are just. Miss Gordon will be allowed to have 
very little of your guidance.” 

“ We shall see,” said Gerard, fiercely. 

“ You are impatient. Leave me, and find Miss 
Gordon, if you can. Meanwhile, I will make inquiries 
about Mr. Fleming. AYe will meet presently, and 
compare notes.” 

They separated ; Mrs. Betterton joined a group of her 
friends, and Gerard, having made a rapid tour of the 
drawing-room without finding Dorothy, descended to the 
rooms below. Hastily passing from one to another he 
ran against Harold Belouse, whowas lolling against the 
w'all in an attitude of deep dejection. 

“ I beg your pardon,” stammered Gerard, in apology ; 
“ I did not AYhy surely, Harold ! ” 

“ Launce — glad to see you ; charmed ! ” replied Mr. 
Belouse, in a doubtful tone of welcome. 

“ AAliy on earth do you stick your feet out for a 
man to fall over?” said Gerard, dropping the tone of 
apology, on finding who it was that obstructed the 
passage. “ AYhat’s the matter with you? You look as 
though you were about to drop to pieces.” 

With a languid step, Harold drew his old friend to 


50 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


a corner, where they were free from observation, and 
said, ill a low voice — 

“ I’m only aesthetic, Gerard.” 

“ Whatever is the matter with you ? Sit down, if 
you can’t hold yourself up straight ! ” 

Harold seated himself, saying, in a tone of remon- 
strance, “ Don’t upset the show, old man.” 

“ What is it ? Is one of your creditors here that 
you are trying to appear as unlike your old self as pos- 
sible?” • 

“ Creditors — they’re all paid, and I have actually 
opened a banking account.” 

“ Then you are no longer in Fitzroy Street ? ” 

“ Not I. Go down now and then as kind of patron ; 
but the old days of Attenborough, Jew dealers, and beer 
in a pewter pot, are gone and past. You know I was 
something of an artist, Gerard.” 

“ Something — but not much.” 

“ You never could see that I had talent — it was 
your fault, not mine. Society has discovered me, and 
set me up on its altar to worship.” 

“ History repeats itself ; it is not the first time a 
benighted people has served a calf in that way. Tell 
me what has happened.” 

“ I found studying from nature useless, so I studied 
from the Grosvenor Gallery, and by taking a bit here 
from Whistler, and a bit there from Burne Jones, I pro- 
duced a picture that no one could understand. They 
were compelled to admire it. The canvas was exhibited 
in Bond Street, and society made inquiries, and amongst 
the number of people who sought an introduction to me 
was a furniture-dealer, a florist, and a peacock merchant. 
They gave me a few lessons in the aesthetic business, and 
I stand in with them to take half profits on all the 
feathers, flowers, and furniture, I induce society to pur- 
chase. The more gimcracks I induce people to buy, the 
more society rushes to me for advice. T am the authority 
now. My tailor refuses to send his bill. Every day I 
receive applications from tradespeople for recommenda- 
tion, with the most liberal offers of percentage. 1 have 
just introduced rushes for the floor, and I expect to 


FOB LOVE AND HONOB. 


57 


make the fortune of the old woman I have set up in the 
business. What do you think of the mediaeval shoes 
with long toes ? ” 

“ I think them hideous.” 

“ I am glad to hear you say that. I think of intro- 
ducing them for ladies’ evening dress, if I can find 
a reasonable bootmaker.” 

“ I suppose yours is a pardonable kind of fraud, for, 

“ ‘Doubtless, the pleasure is as great 
Of being cheated as to cheat.’ 

However, we will talk of that hereafter ; at present, I 
wish to talk to you upon a more serious subject.” 

“ Happy to be of service to you always, Gerard. Wait 
a moment, there’s a lady looking this way ; I must put 
a little ‘ side ’ on. Don’t be alarmed, there’s nothing 
the matter with me. Talk on ; I can listen and look 
imbecile at the same time.” 

“ Do you know Mr. Sebastian Fleming?” 

“ Know him ! I should think I did. It was he who 
introduced me to Mrs. Stephen Launce. My men fur- 
nished the whole show.” 

“ What sort of a man is he ? ” 

“ Oh, a lovely old fellow — sort of cross between a 
skeleton and a Japanese Pagod.” 

“ You mean to say he is ugly ? ” 

“ Ugly ! You never saw such a hideous old fossil in 
all your life. I only wish I could get a breed of dogs 
with a cast of countenance like his ; I could retire from 
the business in a year.” 

“ Is he a little thin old man ? ” 

“ He could be folded up and sent by parcel’s post 
without exciting inquiries ; as for his age, it would 
puzzle a paleontologist to ascribe to him his particular 
stratum. He’s the sort of man a megatherium would 
be proud to shake hands with as an old aquaintance ; 
he has a sort of museumy smell about him, too.” 

Extravagant as this description was it sufficed to 
convince Gerard that Mrs. Betterton’s supposition was 
correct, and that the terrible old man they had seen was 


58 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


Sebastian Fleming. lie had noticed in passing him a 
peculiar odor of mingled musk and balm. 

“What do you know of him besides his personal 
appearance ? ” 

“ I know that he is rich, tolerably generous, and not 
such a fool as he looks.” 

“You know that he is my uncle’s partner m busi- 
ness?” 

“ Yes ; senior partner. I should say, by the way, 
that poor old boy, Mr. Launce, truckles to him.” 

Harold grew less playful as he spoke, and was silent 
and thoughtful after. 

“ Go on, Harold ; tell me all you know, there’s a good 
fellow.” 

“ I know no more. Of course, people talk about him 
a great deal.” 

“ What do they say ? ” 

“Everything that spiteful ingenuity can suggest. 
His movements seem to be just as inexplicable as his 
character and face. Thorpe met him in Venice five 
years ago. Brown remembers him at Hamburg before 
the gaming was stopped, Rogers swears he has seen 
him year after year at Monte Carlo ; all agree that he 
has only lately appeared in England. Old Robinson 
recollects seeing him at Epsom twenty years ago, and 
says he has not altered a hair. His is not the sort of 
face you would forget.” 

“ But what do they say about him ? ” 

“ Absurd things. They say he ruined young Ludlow 
you remember poor Bob, who bolted. Heaven only 
knows where.” 

“Yes.” 

“ It seems pretty certain, from what Roger says, that 
while he had money he was always with Fleming at 
Monte Carlo. And now they suggest that he has your 
poor old uncle under his thumb.” 

“ Do you believe these stories ? ” 

“Witli regard to ruining young fellows — no. But 
with regard to Mr. Stephen Launce, I think it quite 
likely that he may be under some great obligation to 
him. I don’t know what to think.” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


59 


“ That is to say, you have some idea which you dare 
not believe. Tell me what do you think of Sebastian 
Flemmg ? ” 

Harold was silent for a moment or two, then — 

“ Do you believe there could be such a creature as a 
va-mjDire ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Nor I, neither ; but if such creatures did exist, I 
should say that Sebastian Fleming was a vampire.” 

“ Do you know that Miss Gordon, Mr. Launce’s ward, 
is pressed to marry this Sebastian Fleming?” 

“ I have heard so, but, by George ! I hope it is not 
true. It is a horrible idea, to think of uniting Life and 
Death like that. She a lovely young girl, he a 

Harold shuddered. 

“It is true!” 

“ Then, I am right down sorry to hear it. And yet, 
after all,” Harold continued, after a pause, “is this 
more horrible than any other mariage de coiivenance f 
Look at the men we meet, publicly known to have lived 
shameless, shameful lives, who are united to young and 
pure girls. The lot of those girls, whom no one pities, 
is absolutely worse than that of Miss Gordon, for all 
that is said against Fleming is unsupported by a single 
fact. We dare not utter our thouglits aloud, for fear 
of being heard by him, which is a proof that our thoughts 
are unjust and unwarrantable. Personally, I know 
nothing against Sebastian Fleming, except that he is 
ugly ; and do we not think ill of all ugly people ? We 
like a good-looking fool ; we make allowances for a 
handsome rake ; but no one has a good word to say for 
this uglj^ old man, though he might be as virtuous and 
intrinsically admirable as a patriarch. At first my 
gorge rose against him, and I was half-minded to let 
the chance slide which would necessitate my having 
anything to do with him ; but when I got used to his 
glmstly old head, that feeling of repulsion wore off, and 
as I saw how much good he was doing for me, factually 
looked forward to seeing him with pleasure. So it may 
be with Miss Gordon ; when she is accustomed to his 
merely personal unpleasantness, his amiability and love 


60 


FOR LOVE ANl) HONOR. 


for her, she may get to like him in a kind of filial 
fashion.” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! ” cried Gerard impatiently ; “ noth- 
ing can reconcile her to such an minatural, loathsome 
union. Introduce what disfigurements you like into 
the empty heads of fashionable fools, but do not outrage 
humanity and decency by tampering with the pure soul 
of a young girl in the name of fashion.” 

And with these words Gerard sprang up, and, turning 
his back angrily on Harold Belouse, strode off to con- 
tinue his search for Dorothy. 

Harold stared after his friend in blank astonishment 
at this sudden exhibition of impetuous anger, and then, 
seemg a lady with puffed sleeves, and her hair on end 
in a red aureola about her sandy face, he subsided into 
an attitude of languishing lassitude, asking himself 
what on earth he had said to send Gerard Launce ofi in 
such a hufi. 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


61 


CHAPTER YIII. 

AN IMAIEDIATE EXPLANATION. 


Mr. Latjnce came to me again, as we finished a waltz. 

“ Will yon be good enough to tell me if you have seen 
Miss Gordon in the room, lately ? ” he asked. 

She has just entered the room on the left, with Mrs. 
Betterton. 

He started, and left me without a word ; I could see 
he was excited. Just as he approached the entrance, 
he was met full face by Miss Gordon ; her hand rested 
lightly within the bent arm of the little old man with 
the yellow skin. She was taller than he. Her position 
was a trying one, for all eyes were upon her, and, unless 
she were dull, she must have seen the sarcastic expres- 
sion and scarcely concealed contempt in many of the 
faces about her. The prodigious wealth of Mr. Sebastian 
Fleming had been the theme of several remarks which 
reached my ear, and doubtless several of those women 
who pretended contempt for Miss Gordon were, in 
reality, envious of her fortune. I think it quite probable 
that Miss Gordon knew full well what the ill-natured 
people were saying of her. She was pale, and held up 
her head proudly, meeting all eyes with composure. 
To me she seemed like a heroine going to execution, and 
conscious of her innocence. 

Mrs. Launce walked close beside Miss Gordon, and 
Mr. Stephen Launce kept on the right hand of the little 
old man, obsequiously talking to him and smiling the 
while ; he rested one hand in his waistcoat, but the 
other hung by his side, and I noticed the fingers per- 
petually twitching, as I have frequently observed the 


62 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


fingers of an actor’s unengaged hand to twitch on the 
night of his dehut. 

Mr. Gerard Launce stood directly in the way of the 
party, and for a moment he stopped, as if undecided 
whether to speak or move away. Mrs. Launce made 
the slightest deprecatory movement with her hand and 
an inclination of her head, as if to beg that he would 
not forget the courtesy due to her ; and he stepped 
back, with a stiff bow. 

The party passed me on their way to the outer en- 
trance, JVtr. Gerard following them. Mrs. Betterton 
stood close by the piano ; she had time to speak a few 
words to Mr. Gerard as he passed, for the party 
stopped a moment while the old man put up his eye- 
glass to see what it was he had stumbled over, and 
received Mrs. Stephen Launce’s eager explanation of 
the strewn rushes. 

“ That is Mr. Sebastian Fleming,” she said under 
her fan. 

“ Yes,” replied Gerard. “ And is that to be the hus- 
band of Dorothy ? ” 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” she answered. 

The party descended to the cloak-room below, where 
a couple of powdered servants were waiting for their 
master, Sebastian Fleming. With the utmost care 
they enveloped the old man in a long ermine-lined 
cloak, while Stephen Launce, standing by with Flem- 
ing’s soft felt hat in his hand, directed their movements 
with assiduous solicitude, as though they were cover- 
ing some delicate piece of faience, which might be 
broken by a careless touch. Every movement of Sebas- 
tain Fleming was slow, rigid, jerky, like the movement 
of an automaton figure ; he grumbled continually ; now 
in a hollow, unintelligible muttering, now in words of 
high reproof, with a voice pitched in a high shrill treble 
key. At length, when the operation was concluded, 
and he stood prepared to go, Dorothy, at a gesture 
from Mrs. Launce, gave him her hand, and the old man 
raised it to his lips. 

Gerard shuddered. 

“ Is the carriage door open ? ” asked Fleming. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 63 

“ I will open it for you, my dear Sebastian,” said 
Stephen Launce. 

Gerard stepped forward. 

“You have no hat on, sir,” he said; “and it is 
unbecoming that you should go out to open a carriage 
door. If a servant cannot open it, I will myself.” 

“ We will open it together, Gerard. What is more 
proper than to give — our services to those who require 
them ? ” 

Sebastian Fleming stopped, and turned towards the 
speakers. 

“Who is this gentleman?” he asked, looking at 
Gerard. “Mr. Gerard Launce, my nephew,” said 
Stephen Launce. “ A very good gentleman, a very fibue 
young gentleman.” 

“ Richard’s son ? ” 

“ Yes ; poor Dick’s only boy.” 

Sebastian Fleming looked at him in silence for a 
moment, nodding his head in approval ; then he said — 

“I shall see you again, Mr. Gerard. Your father 
and I were great friends, and I shall be glad to give 
you the same assistance I gave him. I dare say you 
will need it some of these days.” His voice dropped 
from the upper to the lower register with these last 
words, which seemed to be rather the unintended ex- 
pression of a private reflection than purposely intended 
for Gerard’s benefit. Turning to his servants he cried 
pettishly. “ Go on, you fellows — what are you wait- 
ing for? Stephen, I don’t want you ; go back. I have 
three servants to put me into my carriage ; isn’t that 
enough ? ” 

Stephen Launce fell back at this command. Gerard 
turned his back in disgust, and returned to the cloak- 
room. Mrs. Launce and Dorothy were no longer there. 

At the foot of the stairs he overtook his uncle. 

“ I wish to have a few words with you, sir,” he said 
impatiently. “ I want to understand the position of 
my sister Dorothy.” 

“ Certainly, my dear Gerard ; but not now — not now. 
I have my visitors to attend upon. To-morrow, per- 
haps ; but not now,” he said persuasively. Then, catch- 


64 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


ing sight of his wife in the distance, he added, in a 
tone of relief — 

“ Oh, there is Mrs. Launce. She will explain to you 
how impossible it is to make any explanation to-night.” 

Mrs. Launce seemed to see the position of things, 
and waited for their approach. 

She was alone. 

“ Where is Dorothy ? ” asked Gerard. 

“ She has a headache, and desired me to say good- 
night to you,” replied Mrs. Launce. 

“Gerard wants an understanding, my dear, a few 
words with regard to his sister Dorothy; an explana- 
tion, as he says,” said Stephen Launce. 

“ If Mr. Gerard will take a suitable opportunity of 
putting questions, you or I will answer them, of course,” 
Mrs. Launce said, with quiet dignity. 

“ I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon 
you to-morrow, Mrs. Launce,” said Gerard, perceiving 
the impossibility of obtaining an immediate explana- 
tion. 

Mrs. Launce bowed graciously, and Gerard, having 
replied with the most courteous salute he could make, 
returned to the cloak-room, seized his hat and coat, 
and left the house at once. 


FOE LOVE AND HONOE, 


65 


CHAPTER IX. 

BAI'FLED. 

At two o’clock the following day Gerard called at 
Grandison House, presented his card, and was forth- 
with shown into the reception-room. 

A few minutes later the door opened, and Mrs. 
Launce entered, closed the door, and turned to Gerard 
with a face as composed and serene as if she had 
nothing to fear and nothing to hope from her visitor. 
Their salutation was entirely formal ; there was no pre- 
tence to friendship on either side. 

When she was seated, he took a chair to face her, 
and with characteristic impetuosity, went straight to 
the point at once. 

“ Mrs. Launce,” said he, “ will you be good enough 
to tell me if you intend to force Dorothy to marry 
Mr. Sebastian Fleming?” 

“ You must he aware that I have no authority what- 
ever over Miss Gordon.” 

“ I desired to see my uncle, and, as you have ap- 
peared in his place, I conjectured that he had relegated 
his functions to you.” 

“Your conjecture was unfortunate. I am here only 
by courtesy to you. Mr. Launce is not at home.” 

“ In that case I will not tax your courtesy further,” 
said Gerard, rising and taking his hat; “I shall find 
my uncle at his office, I suppose ?” 

“Unfortunately you will not.” 

“ Can you tell me when I shall find him here ? ” 

“ No ; I cannot.” 

“ Will you tell me, then, madam, where I shall find 
him ? ” Launce asked wrathfully. 

“ I regret to say that I cannot tell you that.” 


66 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ May I ask,” said Gerard, after a moment’s perplex- 
ity, “if yon have given yourself the trouble to see me 
for no other purpose than your own amusement?” 

“ I assure you 1 had no hope of amusement in seeing 
you, and I find very little in the tone of insolent 
authority you have adopted in speaking to me. I 
understood last evening that you wished for an ex- 
planation of Miss Gordon’s position, and I promised 
that you should have such answers as your questions 
required either from Mr. Launce or from me. I am 
still prepared to listen and reply to you, if you will 
bear in mind that you are speaking to a lady not 
accustomed to ungentlemanly roughness.” 

“ I offer you my apologies, Mrs. Launce,” said Gerard, 
reseating himself, somewhat abashed by the reproof 
that he felt was in part merited ; “ when a man feels 
strongly, he speaks strongly, and poor Dorothy’s con- 
dition appears to me so desperate that I cannot think of 
it with patience.” 

“Yet, if her condition is to be made less des- 
perate, it can only be done by patient endeavor 
to arrive at a means. I feel for Dorothy, and I 
sympathize with you. Let us consider the subject 
calmly, and I promise to second, with all my efforts, 
any suggestion you may make for her welfare, which 
is not inimical to the still dearer interest I have at 
heart.” 

“ What interest is that ? ” 

“ My husband’s health and peace.” 

“ Tell me, first of all, why I cannot see him.” 

“Because composure is necessary to his mind, 
and your presence, last night, agitated him to an 
alarming degree. It was to avoid an interview with 
you, wliicli I feared would liave an ill effect upon 
him, that I advised him to leave London for a few 
days.” 

“ What has he to fear from me ? ” 

“Your infiuence over Dorothy. Tie has dreaded 
your return to England as being likely to overthrow 
the marriage of Dorothy with Sebastian Fleming, 
knowing how obedient she is to your guidance.” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


67 


“ Then he intends to make her marry that man ? ” 

“ He cannot force her to marry against her inclina- 
tion ; he would not if he could. Ills disposition is so 
kind that I believe he himself would oppose the 
marriage if he regarded the result as you do.” 

“ Then he has been cheated into the belief that such a 
marriage will be for her happiness.” 

“ Yes, cheated, if you will use unpleasant w'ords. 
He has seen that there are many unions of old and 
young which are more ” 

“ Oh, I have heard those arguments,” cried Gerard, 
interrupting Mrs. Launce. “ But if all arguments 
proved that such marriages were good and holy, I would 
still oppose the union of sweet Dorothy with that loath- 
some wretch. It is loathsome, and shall not be, if I can 
help it.” 

He had twisted his watch-chain about his fingers, 
and, as he spoke, he gave it a wrench that snapped the 
link — ^which was not without significance. 

Mrs. Launce looked at him, with the shadow of 
trouble upon her well-subjected countenance, and left 
it to him to resume the discourse. 

“ You also desire this marriage ? ” said Launce, inter- 
rogatively. 

“ I desire whatever is necessary to my husband.” 

“ And why is it necessary to him ? ” 

“ That I cannot tell ; I cannot even guess.” 

“ He must have some reason — some purpose,” Launce 
said, looking sharply into Mrs. Launce’s face. 

“If he have, it is known only to himself,” she 
answered, meeting his eyes firmly. 

“ Do you think he is under a pecuniary obligation to 
Sebastian Fleming ? ” 

“ He will not admit it. That was my first suspicion, 
for I acknowledge that I was exacting and extravagant 
before Mr. Launce showed signs of secret unhappiness, 
and led him to expenses which I knew he could not 
afford. But his commercial speculations have been 
fortunate, and he spends money now more freely than 
I desire.” Mrs. Launce bowed her head, and said softly, 
“ I would it were otherwise.” 


G8 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


Gerard perceived that Mrs. Launce suffered. Per- 
haps she was regretting the past, when she had valued 
i,o lightly her husband’s happiness, which now humbled 
and bent her with anxiety. Gerard said to himself he 
had wronged this woman, as he had wronged so many 
before, by hasty judgment. 

“ If we could get at the cause of his anxiety, we 
might relieve it,” said Gerard. “ Have you no idea 
what motive he has for secrecy ? ” 

“None. The necessity he feels may be entirely 
imaginary.” 

“Then the evil is only increased by encourage- 
ment ? ” 

“Do you know what happened to your father, 
Gerard ? ” 

“ He shot himself, I believe.” 

“ He did, and with no fathomable cause. He was at 
peace with everybody; his pecuniary position, his 
domestic affairs, were all satisfactory.” 

“ It was an act of insanity.” 

“ And my poor husband is your father’s brother.” 

“ Great heavens ! ” exclaimed Gerard, grasping the 
inference of those words ; “ you do not think my 
uncle’s mind is affected ?” 

“ What else can I think ? It is not a supposition 
that one makes by choice. Insanity is frequently a 
family disease, and vhy should not my husband, 
goaded by some imaginary dread, look upon this mar- 
riage as an event of life or death to him ?” 

“ It is possible,” said Launce, overawed by the ter- 
rible suggestion. 

“ Knowing it to be possible,” Mrs. Launce said 
eagerly, “ you will see how inevitably necessary the 
marriage is.” 

“No; I disagree with you. Even the fear of my 
uncle's death will not justify the sacrifice of Dorothy’s 
lifelong happiness.” 

“ Nothing is dearer to me than my husband’s life ; 
no sacrifice too great to save him from suicide.” 

“ That my uncle may kill himself is only a vague 
possibility ; but that Dorothy will live, suffering years 


FOB LOVE AND HON OB. 


09 


of misery if she marries Sebastian Fleming, is a cer- 
tainty. She shall not marry him, happen what 
may.” 

“ Be rational, Gerard. Why should you inter- 
fere ? ” 

“ It is my duty. I should be unworthy of the trust 
she has put in me, if I permitted her to be led into 
such a fatal sacrifice.” 

“ She is not a child. Leave her to her own guidance ; 
I have told you that Mr. Launce will not pretend to 
compel her. If she marries Sebastian Fleming, it will 
be of her free will.” 

“ She will marry him from pity of my uncle — for 
fear of that fate you have spoken of. She must be 
warned against yielding to a false conception of duty. 
Where is she ? ” 

“You will not find her. She left the house with 
Mr. Launce this morning.” 

“You have removed her that I may not protect her. 
You have sent her away with my uncle, that she may 
continually feel the dread presence of his mute appeals 
for her merciful yielding.” 

Mrs. Launce made no response. 

“ Try your utmost,” Gerard said, in fierce excitement, 
as he snatched up his hat, “ and you shall fail. Dorothy 
shall not marry Sebastian Fleming ! ” and with these 
words he left the room with a hurried step, as if he 
expected to find Dorothy by merely walking away 
from the house where she was not. 


70 


FOB LOVE AND HON OB. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE SEARCH. 

Gerard returned to his chamber, revolving in his 
mind various schemes for discovering Dorothy. He 
had little hope of his letters being forwarded ; never- 
theless he wrote to her, and also to his uncle, implor- 
ing an immediate interview. He posted the letters, 
and set himself to find Harold Belouse. From in- 
quiries amongst his old friends in Fitzroy Street, he 
learnt that Harold had a studio at Highgate, and 
thither he went with all speed. It seemed to him that 
every moment was of importance. The only service 
Harold could render was to give the address of Mrs. 
Betterton. 

Gerard had not dismissed the cabman. “ Mayfair,” 
he cried, as he stepped quickly into the hansom, and 
once more he was in pursuit. 

Mrs. Betterton was at home, and gave an attentive 
ear to Gerard’s description of his interview with Mrs. 
Launce — an imperfect and one-sided description, from 
which he naturally omitted his father’s name. 

“ \7hat do you wish me to do ? ” she asked, when 
he had finished. 

“ Go to Mrs. Launce, and find out where she sent 
Dorothy.” 

“ Why do you ask me to do this? ” 

“ Because Mrs. Launce has confidence in you. She 
will probably ask you to assist her in this scheme for 
Dorothy’s destruction.” 

Mrs. Betterton knitted her fingers over her knees, 
and, looking gravely in Gerard’s face, said — 

“ Has it occurred to you, since you summed up my 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


71 


faults last night, that, in addition to being vulgar and 
poor, I am wanting in principle ? ” 

“ I don’t understand you,” said Gerard. 

“ Don’t you know that you have asked me to do a 
dishonest thing — to take advantage of JMrs. Launce’s 
comldence in me, and betray her secrets ? ” 

“ I have not thought of it in that light,” Gerard 
faltered. 

“ No, men seldom do look at the conduct of women 
in an ordinary light while it serves their purpose to be 
a little blind ; only, when they have nothing to gain, 
they judge with strict impartiality, and point out how 
mean and shabby we can be.” 

“ I can think of nothing but Dorothy’s peril,” said 
Gerard, humbly. 

“ Then I will forgive you. Yours is a good, manly 
weakness. It would be captious, perhaps, to find fault 
with a man for knocking over a few feeble folks when 
he has a tniin to catch.” 

“ It is not an entirely selfish end I have in view — 
think of poor Dorothy ! ” 

“ I do. And I cannot forget Sebastian Fleming. I 
shudder when I think of him. That horrible face 
came before my eyes when I tried to sleep, and kept me 
sufficiently awake for memory to give a shape to 
dreamy fancies. I saw that picture of Ary Scheffer’s, 
living ; but the Mephistopheles was more hideous in the 
form of Sebastian Fleming, the Marguerite more pit- 
iable in the unsullied purity of Miss Gordon. I have 
spent best part of the day in thinking what must be 
done to save — to rescue her.” 

“ With what result?” 

“None that will serve our wishes. I thought of 
going to Mrs. Launce, and telling her frankly, wdiat I 
thought of this proposed match, and then begging 
Dorothy to marry no one for a couple of years. But I 
am convinced, from what you have told me, that re- 
monstrance with Mrs. Launce would be ineffectual. 
Poor Mrs. Launce, I feel for her and like her more 
than I have liked her hitherto. In her place I should 
do just as she is doing — supposing that my husband 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


were lovable. I feel as if I were a kind of Judas 
already. You haven’t said, Mr. Launce, how the in- 
formation I get is to be used. How do you propose 
to prevent Miss Gordon’s marriage with Sebastian 
Fleming ? ” 

“ By marrying her myself.” 

“ Poor Dorothy ! ” 

“ Do you pity her because she will be my wife ? ” 

“ I was thinking how pretty and sensitive she is. I 
pity all pretty girls ; they have so much to suffer ; 
they are called upon to bear so much that ordinary 
girls escape. It is bad for all of us ; we get flattered 
and spoilt, tempted to evil, led into folly, tricked and 
deceived, and in the end are laughed at by men for 
being the fools they have made us. For those with 
broad shoulders like mine, the lot is less hard to bear ; 
we get hardened and tough ; sceptical on most points ; 
we do not put our trust in princes ; we make the best 
of our condition. If we have no true friends, we And 
amusement in the attentions of fools ; we have not 
much love, but we make up for that deficiency by an 
abundance of spite. If, sometimes, the question occurs 
to us, ‘ Of what use am I in this world; what good am 
I to any living creature ? ’ we have a good cry, and 
when it’s over, we do our best to think of something 
else. But with Miss Gordon it would be otherwise. 
She is not of our robust, selfish disposition. Nature 
has not intended her for a toy to be played with, and 
cast into meaner and lower hands as her freshness 
wears off. She is one who is distinctly fitted to do 
something in this world, to minister love and happiness, 
to sacrifice herself, if necessary, for the happiness of 
another ; and if this end of her being is not attained, 
she will wither and die, eating her heart out with 
bitter disappointment. That is why I pity her, when 
you tell me she is to be your wife.” 

“ Is it impossible that the purpose of her life may 
not be accomplished by her as my wife ? ” 

“Not impossible. It would be quite probable, if she 
loved you, and wished to be your wife. But she does 
not love you in the sense of a woman who for that rea- 


FOn LOVE AND HONOR. 


73 


son wishes to niarry. And think, Mr. Launce, what 
she will suffer ; what you, not for your own sake alone, 
but for hers, must suffer also, if, when she is your wife, 
she loves another. You are not old; you will have 
many years to live together.” 

“ The worst that can befall her as my wife is better 
than her fate as the wife of Sebastian Fleming.” 

“There I agree with you. Well, to-morrow I wilJ 
set myself to work to betray poor Mrs. Launce, because, 
as you put it, she has confidence in me.” 

“Wait,” said Launce; “have patience with me. I 
spoke without considering what I said. We will wait 
until better means have failed, before resorting to that. 
I have written to Dorothy and my uncle. They may 
be far away. We will allow three days for their 
response, and if no letter comes then, we will yet try 
to play fairly.” 

“That is good and manly,” said Mrs. Betterton, 
giving her hand frankly. 

****** 

Three days passed, and no letter came in reply to 
Gerard’s. Gerard went to the City office of Flemiug 
and Launce, and asked to see Mr. Stephen Launce. 
He was told that Mr. Launce was out of town ; but 
more he could not learn. 

Before demanding the assistance of Mrs. Betterton, 
he determined to try the effect of another interview 
with Mrs. Launce. The door was opened by a house- 
keeper, who informed him that Mrs. Launce had left 
London the preceding day ; she could not tell whither 
she had gone. She had taken her servants with her, 
and ordered all letters to be sent on to the City office. 

From Grandison House he went to Mrs. Betterton, 
and told her the news. She could now give him no 
help, but promised to make inquiries amongst mutual 
friends, and suggested the employment of a private in- 
quiry agent. With revived hope, Gerard sought a 
secret agent, who treated the affair with much serious 
interest, and, without holding out any definite hope, 
gave him to understand that if it were possible for 


74 


FOE LOVE AND llONOE, 


human ingenuity to discover the whereabouts of Mr. 
Stepheu Launce, his officers should succeed. 

For a fortnight Gerard called at the agent’s office, 
day after day, without getting any nearer to the knowl- 
edge he required. The officers took up an immense 
number of clues, and followed them diligently out, but 
they all led nowhere. Numberless bribes had been 
given, but no one benefited by them except those who 
received and the agent who gave. Then, desponding 
of their success, Gerard set himself to the task of dis- 
covery, visiting a score of possible towns to make fur- 
ther inquiries, and returning to London dispirited and 
out of heart ; hunting up friends who might know the 
Launces, and asking advice. Constant anxiety and 
thought made themselves apparent in his face. Friends 
who did not know his secret made remarks — uncharit- 
able, of course. 

“ What’s the matter with Gerard Launce ? He looks 
as if he expected to be served with a warrant.” 

“ That’s not it. He has plenty of money ; too much, 
in fact. He looks to me as if he drank too much.” 

“ I believe there’s a touch of insanity in poor Gerard. 
You know what happened with his father; his uncle is 
certainly touched — left London and gone no one on 
earth knows where.” 

Ignorant of these comments, and careless of what 
people thought, Gerard continued his search — sick at 
heart with deferred hope, almost despairing of finding 
Dorothy in time to prevent her marriage, and knowing 
not where to seek for help. 

As usual in such cases, assistance came from a 
totally ignored source. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


1 1 ) 


CHAPTER XI. 

Brooke’s advice. 

The first bright and warm day of spring had brought 
a crowd of people into the Park. 

Gerard Launce stood amongst the loungers by the 
railing, distinguishable from the indolent gentlemen 
who were there solely for amusement ; noticeable, even, 
by a frequent movement of impatience, by the restless- 
ness of his observation, and the eager curiosity with 
which he examined the faces in each one of the car- 
riages of the double stream of passing vehicles. 

Some one touched his arm ; he turned to find him- 
self face to face with Brooke — Brooke, whom he had 
left in Canada some seven weeks before, expecting to 
meet again in the autumn at soonest. 

“ Don’t you know me, Gerard ? ” he asked, holding 
out his hand to his astonished friend. 

“ There are some men that seem never to alter, and 
you are one of them, Brooke.” 

“ That is a compliment that I cannot return. What’s 
the matter, Gerard ? Have you been ill ? ” 

“ Ho. Let us get away from this gaping crowd.” 

“ The gaping crowd won’t be sorry to lose you ; it 
must be somewhat difficult to keep up a fashionable 
air of indifference beside a man who jigs about like 
one in an ague. I should not have noticed you but 
for the striking contrast you presented to the fellows 
on either side of you. Where are we going ? ” 

“ To the first seat that is vacant. I have a lot to 
tell you, Brooke, and I never before stood in such need 
of your help. I’ll tell you everything presently ; but 
why are you here ? ” 

“ Because you are here. Jack and I tried to think 


76 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


that your absence v/as of no importance to ns, but it 
was useless. The sport was not the same, the hut 
was not the same, and we ourselves were not the same 
without you. It was not because your society had 
been peculiarly brilliant, or that you had done any- 
thing particular to endear yourself to us. It was the 
simple fact that you had been there and were there no 
longer ; and only those who have lived in that solitude 
know how depressing the absence of one familiar face 
can be. Jack and I sat in the hut yawning in each 
other’s faces until the dulness and sheer monotony of 
yawning became unendurable. We tried to have a 
row, but the mutual endeavor was abortive, and when 
the mail came round again we looked at each other, 
and Jack said to the driver. “ Book me the warmest 
corner in the sleigh for the return journey.” And the 
same for me,” said I, and — here I am.” 

“ When did you arrive ? ” 

“ This morning.” 

“ Where’s Jack?” 

“ Oh, he no sooner arrived in London than he went 
out of it again. Learnt that there was a spring meet- 
ing or other, and off he went.” 

“ Characteristic. Here is a seat.” 

“ I suppose you cannot smoke a pipe and wear a hat 
and coat of that description at the same time,” Brooke 
said, as they seated themselves. 

“ I don’t want to smoke,” answered Gerard. 

“ That’s a bad sign, Gerard. A man must be hard 
hit who does not seek the philosophic soothing of a pipe 
when he’s in trouble.” 

“ There are not many men who have your serenity 
of temper.” 

“ There are not many men who smoke so much to- 
bacco. You need some such calming influence. You 
cannot take things coolly. One would think you still 
a boy by the impetuosity with which you dash your- 
self against obstacles ; well, when you get ten years 
more on your shoulders, and as many gray hairs in 
your beard as I have in mine, you will have to economize 
your forces, and walk round them. Come, tell me your 
latest difiSculty.” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


77 


Gerard recounted all that had happened since his 
arrival in England, and Brooke listened without mak- 
ing any remark. An occasional nod, a more or less 
quick puffing at his pipe, marked the attention he paid, 
and the interest he took in the narrative. 

“ I always loved Dolly,” Gerard said in conclusion ; 
“ but I did not know how deeply until now that she 
seems lost to me. Mine is more than a fraternal feel- 
ing ; but if she was nothing to me but my step-sister, 
I should be no less averse to her marrying that old 
villain.” 

Brooke waited a minute or so to see if Gerard had 
anything to add. Then he said — 

“ Supposing you find Miss Gordon, how shall you 
prevent the marriage ? ” 

“ I shall persuade her from it ; if it is necessary I 
will forcibly remove her from my uncle’s infiuence, and 
marry her myself. That will prevent her marriage 
with Sebastian Fleming.” 

“ A very good plan for a drama, Gerard ; hut I am 
afraid it would hardly be practicable actually. In the 
first place, what power have you over Miss Gordon — 
for you tell me she has no idea of your being her lover ? ” 

“ I have said that she has always accepted my 
guidance.” 

“ Yes, as a child she did ; now she is no longer a 
child the case is entirely different. From what you 
have told me, I conclude she is a young woman of strong 
feeling and principle, and when it comes to a question 
of obeying your wise council or following the direction 
of her own heart, your wisdom, I believe, will take a 
secondary place. While she was yet in transitionary 
state she was undecided whether to ask for your help 
or to rely upon herself. It is evident that, in virtually 
assenting to become Mr. Fleming’s wife, she left that 
state of doubt behind her, and determined to be her 
own guide in this matter. Depend upon it. Miss 
Gordon is a consenting party to this ‘ banishment ’ as 
you call it. If Mr. or Mrs. Launce made any exhibition 
of force it would counteract her compassion for the 
sufferings of Mr. Launce. She would revolt against 


78 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR, 


any control but that of her own conscience. If Mrs. 
Launce is clever, she knows this, and I believe she did 
not intercept your letters. Miss Gordon would naturally 
expect a letter ; had she not received it, she would 
have suspected treachery, and written to you ; and 
there would have been an end to the matrimonial 
schemes of Mrs. Launce. Now, presuming, for the 
sake of argument, that Miss Gordon feels the sacrifice 
of herself necessary — shares your aunt’s sentiments, 
in fact — how is force to serve you ? We may say that 
post-chaises are out and telegraphs are in. But, even 
supposing that you were successful in abducting Miss 
Gordon, what could come of it but indignation and tears 
on her part, and a repentant restitution of her freedom 
on yours ? ” 

“ I should make a fool of myself ” 

“ Not you,” Brooke said with an ironical laugh. 

“ I haven’t thought out what I should do. The first 
thing is to find the girl ; a means of saving her will be 
suggested by the circumstances of the case.” 

“I am sorry to say I don’t share your opinion. You 
would not play a game of billiards so carelessly.” 

“ Have you a better scheme to propose ? ” Gerard 
asked with some impatience. 

“Yes ; in the first place you must find out what it is 
your uncle dreads. Use pressure to get at the facts, if 
necessary. Talk to him about your influence over Miss 
Gordon, of using force and marrying her, and all that ; 
fear will blind him to the fact that you are talking 
nonsense. He may be able to tell you what he dare 
not reveal to his wife. Knowing what it is that troubles 
him, you may be able to give him relief. At any rate 
you will try your hardest, and inspire him Avith some 
degree of hope. That Avill lessen the strain upon Miss 
Gordon, and give you time to make love to her in a 
reasonable manner. If you succeed in making her 
love you, your game is won.” 

“ The idea’s good enough,” said Gerard, indifferently, 
“ and I have no doubt that I should be able to carry 
out all you suggest ; but, my dear fellow, you have lost 
sight altogether of the most important thing of the lot.” 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


79 


“ Which is that?” 

“ The necessity of catching our hare before we dress 
him. W e can do nothing until we know where ]\lr. 
and Mrs. Launce are.” 

“That did not seem to me the most difficult obstacle 
to be overcome. There is one person whom you have 
neglected to ask for information.” 

“ Who is that ? ” 

“ Mr. Sebastian Fleming.” 

“ Sebastian Fleming ! It’s preposterous to think 
he will assist me.” 

“ Not at all. Look here, Gerard, if you wish to suc- 
ceed you must cease to regard the position from a mel- 
odramatic point of view. While you think of the 
Launces and Mr. Fleming as a gang of rascals conspir- 
ing to ruin Miss Gordon’s happiness and thwart your 
hopes, you can make no progress. Let us examine Mr. 
Fleming, who seems to be the worst of the lot, and see 
whether you are justified ki considering him your nat- 
ural enemy. You called him an old villain, but beyond 
being villainously ugly and villainously old, he offers no 
claim to that title. All you can urge in addition is, that 
he is vain and wears a young wig.^ You said also, I 
think, that he is abnormal — extraordinary, not human 
— and likened him to a man who was dead and whose 
physical part alone is resuscitated. Vanity is not 
peculiar to the old, and he may be pardoned for wear- 
ing an unbecoming wig on account of his bald head 
being still more unsiglitly. The abnormal condition 
you refer to is really less phenomenal than you seem to 
think. I have seen many old people who seemed as 
though their bodies had outlived their souls. In poor- 
houses where one finds a class whose physical strength 
is disproportionately large to the moral principle, there 
are to be found extremely aged persons utterly bereft of 
hope, fear, love, or any of those sentiments which 
make up what we know as the soul, and who seem noth- 
ing more tlian living mechanisms. In lunatic asylums, 
the peculiarity of soulless bodies is still more obvious. 
At Earles wood I was struck by two cases of men who 
showed not the slightest spark of moral vitality. 


80 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


Most lunatics show some sentiment, either of love or 
fear for their keepers. These men showed none. They 
were indifferent to everything. The prospect of reward 
or punishment had no effect upon them. There was 
no trace of human intelligence in them except that one 
made good boots, and the other was an excellent mathe- 
matician. The mathematician had suffered concussion 
of the brain ; the shoemaker had been born with a 
deformed skull which seemed to confine all the brain 
to the occipital part of the head. He had never shown 
attachment for any living thing, and was kept in re- 
straint on account of his mischievous propensity — a 
propensity which led him to destroy everything he 
could lay hands upon — except boots and the leather 
dress he wore. Now, grant, if you will that Mr. Flem- 
ing is a man of strong physical vitality and feeble or 
extinct moral forces — suppose, if you choose, that he 
is a lunatic, what is therein him to abhor? Rather 
he deserves your pity and lenient consideration. He 
has certainly shown no sign of animosity against you. 
Go to him, and ask him plainly for the address of his 
partner, Mr. Stephen Launce, and in my opinion he 
will give it to you. It is unlikely that Mrs. Launce 
has asked him to be privy to her stratagem, and gentle- 
manly courtesy will oblige him to answer your ques- 
tion. Y ou have been introduced to him ? ” 

» Yes.” 

“ Then go to him, but not in a hostile spirit. And 
take this advice, Gerard, from one who has profited by 
its application : treat all men as your friends, until they 
prove themselves your enemies.” 

“ You’ie right, Brooke, I am stupidly hasty, but ” 

“ You love, and there’s your excuse.” 

Gerard rose quickly from his seat. 

“ Where are you going, Gerard ? ” 

“ To Sebastian Pfieming. Why not?” 

“ I have only one objection, and as that is entirely 
selfish, I will say nothing about it. I will go with you 
as far as I may, and then see if I can hunt up a friend 
at the club.” 


FOB LOVE AND HONOB. 


81 


CHAPTER XII. 

ASSISTANCE. 

“ Is Mr. Fleming here ? ” Gerard asked of one of 
the clerks in the office of Fleming and Lauiice. 

“ If you will give me your name, I will see.” 

Gerard gave his card. He scarcely hoped to find Mr. 
Fleming in the City so late in the day. 

In a few minutes the clerk returned, and requesting 
Gerard to follow, led the way into an inner room. 

“ Mr. Gerard Launce, sir,” said the clerk in a loud 
voice, and, with a movement of his hand towards the 
further end of the room, he withdrew, closing the door 
behind him. 

Gerard could see nothing of Sebastian Fleming, and 
concluding that he was in an adjoining chamber, walked 
leisurely across the room, glancing to right and left in 
expectation of finding some clue to the character of 
the man in his surroundings. He learnt little from 
what he saw. There was scarcely anything to distin- 
guish the room from the private office of an ordinary 
business man. It was entirely without ornament. A 
fire burnt at the further end of the room, and a large 
high-backed chair was placed before it ; near the chair 
upon the left side was a secretary’s writing-table, with 
a seat before it. The large luxurious chair was the 
only object to be identified with the old man. Ap- 
proaching the fire, Gerard caught sight of a small table 
placed in front of the chair, and the next moment he 
stopped suddenly, as though an apparition had sprung 
up before him. 

Sebastian Fleming was seated in the chair. His 
dwarfish figure had been completely concealed by the 
high back of the fauteuille. He was leaning forwards, 

6 


82 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


shielding his eyes with one hand from the light of the 
fire, and looking down upon an ivory chess-board set 
upon a table before him ; in the other hand, which 
rested upon the arm of the chair, he held Gerard’s card. 
He might have been looking at that or the chess-men ; 
the object, whichever it was, seemed to absorb his 
thoughts completely. He remained perfectly motion- 
less until Gerard advanced within range of his sight ; 
then he raised his head, and looked at him with the 
fixed blank look peculiar to people of advanced age. 

“ Ah ! Mr. Gerard Launce,” he said, after a moment, 
making a pretence of rising from his seat. 

Gerard begged him not to move, and seated himself. 

“ I am very glad to see you here — ^very glad, very 
glad,” said the old man, dropping his voice from the 
shrill upper key to a muttering whisper, as he repeated 
the latter words. Then he said : “ 1 must trouble you 
to speak loud. I am a little deaf ! ” 

“ I trust I have not disturbed you,” Gerard said, obey- 
ing the parting injunction of Brooke, to treat Sebastian 
Fleming with respect. 

“ No, no. It is time I finished the game for to-day — 
for to-day. Do you play chess, young gentleman ?” 

“ Very little. I have not sufficient patience to be- 
come a good player.” 

“ To succeed, to be sure of success in any matter, 
one must have patience — patience, patience. And in 
a contest, he who has most patience wins. I am play- 
ing three games now — one with a friend in Scotland, 
another with a friend in Italy, and a third with a friend 
in Germany. I finished a fourth yesterday, with a 
friend in Hungary — tired him out — tired him out ; and 
I shall tire out the others. They will lose patience, 
and make a rash move, and then the game is mine — the 
game is mine — mine, mine, mine.” 

“ Do you use separate boards ? ” 

“ No. I remember the positions.” 

“ You have a remarkable memory.” 

“ For some things, for some things ; ” he repeated 
the words again and again, unconsciously, as he looked 
with his expressionless pearly eyes into Gerard’s face. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 83 

“ You are not engaged in commerce, I suspect,” he said, 
when he became conscious of himself. 

“ Iso. My father left me sufficient to enable me to 
live modestly, and I have no inclination to amass 
money.” 

“ Money is power — greater than the sword, greater 
than the pen, dearer than life, dearer than love, dearer 
than honor, dearer than honor, dearer ” 

“ I do not agree with you, sir,” said Gerard, inter- 
rupting him brusquely. 

“ A statesman will sell his country, a coward his life, 
a lover his mistress, a gentleman his word ” 

“ That is not true.” 

“ Well, well, I am glad to hear you say so, young 
gentleman. I am getting old, and cannot see well — 
cannot see, cannot see.” 

“ I have come here, sir, to ask you for my micle 
Stephen’s address,” said Gerard, anxious to turn the 
subject before losing his temper. 

“ Mr. Stephen Launce is at Tosny, young gentleman.” 

“ Tosny ! ” 

“ A small village on the Calvados coast of France — 
a little out-of-the-way unpleasant place, where the 
people speak an unintelligible patois, and with which 
there is no communication by rail. The season has 
not yet commenced, and consequently Mr. Launce and 
the ladies are completely isolated. But the change 
was necessary to Stephen, for he is less robust than I 
am, actually, and I am glad to say it appears to be 
doing him much good. When I saw him on Sunday 
he was brighter and more cheerful than I had seen him 
for months, for months, for months.” 

“ And Miss — that is — the ladies ? ” 

“ Charming ! Char-ming ! Char-ming ! Miss Gor- 
don a little paler — a little thinner than usual, mayhap, 
but charming — charming as ever. The rough sea 
breeze that suits Stephen Launce is a little too much, 
perhaps, for one so delicate as Miss Gordon ; but she 
absolutely looks more charming, more pale and thin, 
than when she is in better health. It gives her the 


84 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


superior delicacy which a piece of Sevres has over old 
Chelsea — a fine distinction.” 

“ Poor Dorothy ! ” sighed Gerard ; and then, glancing 
at the old man, who preferred to see her thin and pale, 
he felt as if he would like to kick over his chess-board 
and leave the room at once. 

“ Do you think of visiting Stephen Launce ? ” asked 
Sebastian Fleming. 

“ Yes. I suppose I shall find the place on a map.” 

“ Possibly. But I shall be going on Saturday. I 
have ordered a ‘ Pullman’ to be reserved to-day, and if 
you will share it, I ” 

“ Oh, I shall go to-night — thank you all the same.” 

“You will be good enough, perhaps, to express my 
best wishes to Miss Gordon, and say that I intend to 
present myself to her on Sunday.” 

“ I will tell her what you say, Mr. Fleming,” Gerard 
S lid, rising. “ Do not move.” 

“ Thank you. I find it difficult to rise without assist- 
ance — without assistance.” 

“ I wish you good-afternoon, sir.” 

“ Good-afternoon, young gentleman.” He held out 
his hand, and Gerard, constrained to take it, felt a chill 
as he touched the nerveless, cold, waxen fingers. “ I 
have agreeable recollections of your father, ]\Ir. Gerard, 
and if I can serve you, be assured you may command 
me to the extent of my ability.” 

Gerard said to himself, “ The old beggar is so unsus- 
pecting and candid, hang him, that he might tell me 
what I want to know.” 

“To the extent of my ability,” Sebastian Fleming 
was repeating. 

Gerard set down his hat, and retaking his seat, 
said — 

“ There is one service which I should be glad to have 
rendered, Mr. Fleming.” 

“Name it, young gentleman — name it, name it.” 

“ Can you tell me the cause of my uncle Stephen’s 
anxiety ? ” 

“ May I ask, first of all, your reason for putting that 
question?” 


FOB LOVE AJVD HONOR. 


85 


Gerard hesitated. “ I might shuflle out of telling 
the truth by pretending that my affection as his nephew 
made me solicitous,” he said to himself ; then, as his 
hatred of pretences or anything like untruth rendered 
the idea unpalatable, he turned from it, and said 
frankly — 

“No, sir; I cannot tell you my motive for putting 
that question. I can only say that it is important to 
me to discover the cause of his anxiety.” 

Sebastian Fleming shaded his eyes with his hand, 
and looked down on the chess-board for a minute in 
silence ; then he touched the spring of an electric bell 
in the arm of his chair, and moved one of the pieces on 
the board. Gerard waited, wondering whether he 
was forgotten. The clerk entered, and came to the 
side of the chair, 

“ Take the board away, and telegraph my move to 
Weinzierl,” said Mr. Fleming. “ Let the brougham be 
at the door in half an hour, and until then do not enter 
the room.” 

When the clerk had left the room, taking with him 
the chess-board, the old man said, turning his eyes 
upon Gerard : 

“The reticence you showed in replying to my 
question, convinces me that I shall not do amiss to 
trust you with the particulars you ask for. I simply 
impose upon you the condition that these particulars 
shall not be revealed to Mrs. Launce — to Mrs. Launce. 
Stephen desires that she shall not know them, and I 
am bound to respect his feelings — respect his feelings.” 

“ I promise to observe secrecy.” 

The old man had sunk into an attitude of thought ; 
he remained in silence, his elbow resting on the arm 
of his chair, his hand shading his eyes for some seconds. 
Then he said — 

“ The anxiety of Stephen Launce arises from pecu- 
niary embarrassment. That will surprise you, seeing 
that his name is connected with a firm which is in a 
most flourishing condition. He is only nominally a 
partner. The business is entirely mine — has been 
mine for many years — and he is my heaviest creditor. 


86 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


How he came to lose his position it is not necessary to 
tell. The details are complicated. Suffice it, that he 
was never fit for transactions which require patience 
and forethought — more unfit than your father. He 
has gradually sunk lower and lower ; and, to add to 
his misfortunes, he is passionately fond of his wife, 
idiotically fond of his wife, albeit she has led him into 
extravagance- and desperate ventures with which I 
would have nothing to do. Always relying upon 
chance — fortune he calls it — he has from time to time 
ventured and lost his fortune, and accumulated debt, 
debt, debt. He has pushed forward his pieces rashly, 
without providing for their support, as one would say 
were he playing chess. He is a feel)le man — a feeble 
man — and, fearing to make his wife feel that she is 
responsible for his ruin, he has concealed from her his 
true position, his real position.” 

“ Is that all ? ” 

As if to check Gerard’s impatience, Sebastian Flem- 
ing made a deprecatory movement with his hand, and 
continued — 

“ As you know, your father divided his property in 
two equal parts, leaving twenty thousand pounds to 
you, twenty thousand to Miss Gordon. The interest 
during your minority was to go to your mother during 
her life, and to his trustees after \ your mother died, 
and Stephen Launce became trustee. You received 
your fortune upon coming of age, and before your 
uncle’s affairs were greatly complicated ; but Miss Gor- 
don is not entitled to hers until next August. Your 
uncle has lost the trust money, and more — and more.” 

“ Can you tell me how much more ? ” 

“ Not accurately.” 

Both were silent for a time. Presently Mr. Fleming 
said — 

“ Can I give you any further information ? ” 

“ I presume that you have offered to forgive my 
uncle’s debt to you, in consideration of his consenting 
to your marriage with Miss Gordon ? ” Gerard said, 
with uncompromising severity. 

“ Not precisely that, not precisely that. I have pro- 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


87 


mised to forego my claim upon him and return his 
I O U’s on the day that the marriage is celebrated. 
For you see that his consent is easy to give, hut if 
Miss Gordon refused, I should be a loser by my incon- 
siderate offer.” 

“ In effect, you have offered so many hundreds or 
thousands for Miss Gordon?” 

“ In effect, yes. I have made a bad- debt, and the 
wisest course in such cases is to accept the best com- 
promise one can obtain.” 

Gerard looked straight in the horrible old face, with 
its hollow wrinkled cheeks, its fixed hard grin, and 
the implacable, unfeeling eyes, which met his with 
unflinching indifference. “ You wicked old villain ! ” 
he said, in his heart, “ do you dare to set your filthy 
gold in the balance against sweet Dorothy ?” He 
might have said the words aloud ; a less astute man 
than Sebastian Fleming could have read what was 
passing in his mind. 

“ I foresaw what would happen,” said Mr. Fleming. 
“ I never lose sight of business, business, business.” 

“ I am astonished that one wich your foresight com- 
mitted himself to make a bad debt.” 

“ Every one has his hobby, and wastes upon it a cer- 
tain sum every year, and as a poor man puts by a 
shilling now, a sixpence then, raising a fund to pur- 
chase a print or a book, so I have accumulated I O U’s 
to get me a young wife, beautiful, and pale, and deli- 
cate, that others may envy me. That is the end of 
one’s riding a hobby — that he shall be envied. There 
is no merchant prince can show such a collection of 
articles de luxe as I possess, and you must admit that 
I have better taste in wasting money on a beautiful pale 
young woman, than if I squandered it on horses or 
dogs — dogs — d ogs .” 

Gerard could sit and listen no longer. Fleming’s 
mind was as vile as his face. He rose from his seat, 
and putting on his hat, said passionately — 

“ If I can prevent it you shall not get Miss Gordon ; 
you shall content yourself with dogs, if God gives me 
strength to defeat your plans.” 


88 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


The old man was once more shading his eyes with 
his hand, and looking absently before him ; but he 
must have caught something of what Gerard said, for 
he replied — 

“Well, well, if you want any assistance you can rely 
upon me, me, me.” 

Gerard left the room, banging the door to fiercely. 
As he passed through the outer office he heard the 
tinkling of an electric bell. 


FOB LOVE AND HON OB, 


89 


CHAPTER XIII. 

JOSEF BENEDICK. 

Geeard had promised to meet Brooke at the Bayard 
Club in the evening, and tell him the result of his 
interview with Sebastian Fleming. While Brooke 
was dining the club messenger brought him a tele- 
gram. 

With an apology to the friend at his side he opened 
the envelope, and read the enclosed — 

“ From To 

Gerard Launce, Robert Brooke, Esq., 
Charing Cross. Bayard Club. 

“ Made a most important discovery. Leave London 
by the night mail for France. Will write fully to- 
morrow. If you have any advice to offer write to me 
poste 7'estante^ Tosny, Calvados.” 

“ Xo reply,” Brooke said to the messenger, slipping 
the telegram into the capacious pocket of his jacket. 
Then he turned to the table, saying to himself, “ Poor 
old Gerard ! May he succeed ! ” 

The Bayard was a modest club, composed chiefly of 
young fellows who were on the road to fame, and who, 
truth to tell, seemed yet a long way from the goal — 
artists, sharing dingy studios in Chariot Street and 
that neighborhood; actors, ambitious of stage man- 
agement, but as yet without engagement at any 
theatre in particular; musicians, who conflned their 
efforts unwillingly to choral works ; and authors, who 
contributed to mysterious magazines with a select cir- 
culation known only to the happy few who sent four- 
teen stamps to a suburban address for a sample copy. 
Nevertheless, there was a considerable amount of 
talent amongst them, much genial good feeling, a 
cheerful indifference to present neglect, an unbounded 


90 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


faith in the future, and the smallest possible amount 
of ready money. 

Brooke liked the club because the house was 
pleasantly and conveniently situated, and because the 
members, with a few exceptions, were free from that 
vulgar pretentiousness and snobbish affectation which 
renders most clubs outside Pall Mall objectionable. 
He could stroll in there at any time in his easy jacket, 
and smoke a pipe without being peculiar, joining in 
the free-and-easy criticism upon art and music, and 
literature and drama, which were the principal sub- 
jects of conversation. He liked the happy, thriftless, 
lazy, hopeful crew of artists, and they liked him, for 
he never refused to lend, frequently bought little 
“ studies,” and was always genial and gentle. 

“ Nothing serious, I hope. Bob,” said little Robson, 
the talented landscape-painter (whose one gem, exhib- 
ited in the Royal Academy in 1879, was unworthily 
skied), noticing the serious expression on Brooke’s 
face after reading the telegram. 

“ No. Launce sends a message to say he cannot 
meet me here this evening, as he proposed to do.” 

“ That is a pity. And this is our musical night.” 

“ Musical night ; how’s that ? ” 

“ Have not you heard of our concerts ? ” 

“ Not a word. I have been away six months.” 

“ Every Wednesday we have music in the smoking- 
room. The fellows with voices sing the sentimental 
stuff, and we do the comic business — original, of 
course; none of your popular rubbish. You should 
hear Burcroove sing ‘ My heart is true to Poll.’ ” 

“ I heard him sing it years ago. You don’t call that 
original ? ” 

“No ; but look what a capital song it is ! Box sings 
‘The Lifeboat.’ ” 

“With his hand in his bosom, and his eyes in the 
corner of the room, as of old, I suppose. Well, that is 
not new.” 

“ Right. But then he sings it better than ever.” 

“ Then I shall be glad to hear him sing it again.” 

“ But to-night will be exceptionally brilliant.” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


91 


“ Why ? Are you going to sing ? ” 

“ Oh, I dare say I shall do my Academy song ; hut 
that is not it. Benedick has promised to come.” 

“ Who is Benedick ? ” 

“ Don’t you know Benedick — Josef Benedick?” 

“Never heard of him.” 

“ The most wonderful young fellow in London. He 
is only twenty-two or twenty-three; hut already he 
conducts the orchestra at the Levity Theatre, writes 
incidental music, and all that sort of thing. You never 
heard such fiddle-playing in all your life. Joachim’s 
nowhere.” 

“Happy Joachim, with such a rival in the field ! ” 

“ Of course, he doesn’t go in for your pyrotechnical 
playing — musical calisthenics, Op. 9999 in W minor 
and six fiats, or any rubbish of that kind ; but he’ll 
play you a little Hungarian melody, or a berceuse will 
make the tears stream down your cheeks.” 

“ Rather a remarkable musician. I have never seen 
you weep.” 

“ No ; but you will when he plays. The notes go 
straight to your heart — piercing, sobbing notes of ten- 
derness, that call back to your mind all that you have 
loved and lost.” 

“ I did not give you credit for such a tender disposi- 
tion, Johnny.” 

“ 1 did not know that I had it till I heard him play a 
little melody — I don’t, for the life of me, know the 
name of it — a Hungarian song of some kind ; and then, 
as I listened, I seemed to be a youngster once more ; 
and I saw the old mother again, down in Devonshire, 
and — and ” 

“It’s good for a man to feel like that sometimes, 
Johnny.” 

“ It lifts one up a bit, Brooke. I found myself mak- 
ing all sorts of good resolutions as I walked home at 
night ; and I kept ’em too— for a couple of days.” 

“ Bravo ! Is Mr. Benedick a Hungarian ? ” 

“ In the first place, Brooke, don’t give him that horrid 
appellation, ‘ Mr.’ It is as inappropriate as if you were 
to say Mr. Salvator Rosa, or William Shakespeare, 


92 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


Esquire. He is Josef Benedick with strangers ; Jo with 
friends — for he’s a most lovable fellow — lovable as a 
girl ; and one quickly drops into the diminutive with 
him. I don’t know his father’s nationality. Jo was 
born in England ; but he doesn’t look English.” 

“ Describe him to me.” 

“ Figure slight ; not thin, but well proportioned ; a 
mass of wavy black hair, which he wears long, and 
that grows low down upon his forehead. A face 
smooth as a girl’s, a very slight dark moustache, an 
olive skin, large black eyes, slight, delicately marked 
eyebrows, a fine sensitive nose, a chin and full throat 
girlishly pretty, and the sweetest mouth you can im- 
agine.” 

“ A kind of Adonis ? ” 

“ In some respects — in its feminine sweetness and 
beauty, its voluptuous softness — yes. But it is not the 
Greek type of beauty ; it is a blending of two or three 
types ; and there is an expression upon the face which 
no merely beautiful fool such as Adonis was could 
have. It varies as much as the mood of his mind. A 
deaf man might see Inm play with keen enjoyment of 
the unheard music, simply by watching Jo’s face. At 
one time it is playful as a summer breeze. You can 
see mirth and humor frisking in his eyes, just as you 
hear it dancing on the strings of his fiddle ; at another 
it is full of awful possibilities, like the face of the 
Veronese Christ; and then the tender pity, at a turn 
of the melody, disappears, and you see him fired with 
a passionate purpose and terrible power. And when 
he lays down his fiddle, you are astonished to see him 
sit down and drink a glass of bitter beer, like any other 
Christian.” 

“You make me anxious to see him.” 

“ He won’t be here before eleven, because of his en- 
gagement at the theatre. But Podgers has a new song, 
and — you had better stay.” 

“ I shall. Shall we go into the smoking-room now ? ” 

“ Certainly. By the way, Brooke, can you lend me 
half a crown to pay for my dinner ? ” 

****** 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


93 


The concert began at eight. After listening to his 
friend’s performances for a couple of hours, Brooke 
strolled into the reading-room to write a line to Ger- 
ard ; as he was folding the letter little Robson entered. 
When Robson was lucky enough to find a friend with 
money to lend, he clave to him. 

“ Oh, there you are, Brooke. I have been looking for 
you everywhere.” 

“ What do you want, Johnny? ” 

“ Oh, nothing, I only wanted to tell you that there is 
a millionaire up in the smoking-room.” 

“ He’s a more interesting specimen of humanity to 
you than he would be to me. Hang on to him, 
Johnny.” 

“ Oh, Harold Belouse has the monopoly there — lucky 
beggar ! But if he had not, I don’t think I should 
care to know much of him. You never saw such a 
hideous old vulture in your life.” 

“ What’s the name of the millionaire ? ” Brooke 
asked, looking up quickly. 

“ Hanged if I can remember. Belouse always calls 
him ‘ The Fossil,’ and by George ! he looks as if he 
might be put in a glass case and exhibited in the same 
show with a dried ape.” 

“ How is Belouse connected with him ? ” 

“ That I don’t know. But it is certain that Harold 
has made a fortune out of him.” 

“ I should like to know the man’s name.” 

“ We can look in the book in the hall.” 

They glanced at the hall-book. In the column for 
members’ names they found “Harold Belouse,” and 
beside it, in the column for visitors, “ Sebastian Flem- 
ing.” 

“ Come and show me the man,” Brooke said. 

They entered the smoking-room, and had no diffi- 
culty in finding Sebastian Fleming. The central and 
most comfortable seat in the room had been ceded to 
him, all eyes were turned to him, and Dougal Box, then 
singing his admirable song, and exerting his pathetic 
powers to the utmost, fixed his eyes, when they de- 
scended from the ceiling, upon the millionaire. The 


94 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


reverence for money affected even this society, who 
professed to hold in contempt all kinds of men save 
those distinguished by intellectual or moral excellence. 
The reports of Fleming's enormous wealth, freely cir- 
culated by Harold Belouse, had doubtless much to do 
with the “ silent homage ” paid to him ; nevertheless, 
his personal peculiarities were sufficient to engage 
attention. 

He sat as Gerard had seen him first, with his stick 
between his knees, his hands folded on the crutch, and 
his protruded chin resting upon his hands. He stared 
at Box throughout his performance, with the inflexible 
grin on his face ; only when — for the hundredth time — 
Box’s eyes filled with tears over the tender passage in 
his song, relating to the mother and babe cast adrift 
upon the ocean and at the mercy of the cruel waves, 
there was a slight upward contraction of the muscles 
in the old man’s face, which added to the cynical mock- 
ery of its expression. He made no sign or movement 
when the song was finished and all the men around 
him were applauding, but sat still and watched. He 
was equally unmoved by Burcroove’s excellent render- 
ing of “ My heart was true,” etc., albeit that excellent 
humorist was more than usually droll. Harold Belouse 
occasionally spoke to him ; but he responded only with 
a nod or shake of the head, and never turned his eyes 
from the piano. 

“ Did you ever see such a brute in your life ? ” Rob- 
son asked. 

“ Yes, I have seen old men like him,” answered 
Brooke, whose expectations, founded on Gerard’s de- 
scription and his own experience, were no more than 
realized by what he saw of Sebastian Fleming. 

He left Robson, and, crossing the room, took a 
vacant chair by the side of Belouse. Belouse wrung 
his hand, and went through the form of introducing 
him to Sebastian Fleming, who lifted his head, looked 
in Brooke’s face with absent indifference for a moment, 
murmured a few unintelligible words as he made a 
slight bow, and then resumed his former attitude, 
staring straight before him towards the piano. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


95 


“ Cheerful old toad, isn’t he ? ” said Belouse, in a 
low tone. “ If the boys could get him to sit to them 
in the art class, they would be able to pick up a thing 
or two in anatomy.” 

“ Why have you brought him here ? ” 

“ I told him about young Benedick, and he insisted 
upon coming to see him.” 

At that moment there was a murmur of voices by 
the door, the men standing there fell back, while Josef 
Benedick, with his violin under his arm, entered the 
room, nodding to the right and left in recognition of 
the applause with which he was greeted. He made 
his way at once to the piano, where Tom Dillon, the 
jovial president of the club, sat playing the prolonged 
chord wi«th which a principal dancer is sometimes 
heralded in coming upon the stage. 

At the first sounds of applause, and the murmured 
words, “Here he is!” — “Here’s Jo!” — “Josef Bene- 
dick,” which rose on all sides, Sebastian Fleming 
turned his head towards the door, and followed the 
young musician to the piano with his eyes, much as a 
boa follows the movements of a rabbit when it is put 
into its cage. 

Brooke turned his attention from Fleming to Josef 
Benedick. It was a positive relief, such as one might 
feel in leaving the dissecting-room and inhaling the 
fresh, pure, outer air. 

The young fellow, to put an end to the applause, had 
hastily selected the score of the piano accompaniment, 
for Tom Dillon to play, and he now stepped for- 
ward to begin. He paused for a moment to screw up 
a string, and then, raising his head, looked round the 
room at his audience. Another round of applause 
greeted him ; it was as much a tribute to his personal 
beauty as to his musical talent. His was not the face 
of a great musician ; it lacked the strong severe lines 
of an enthusiast. Physical and intellectual beauty go 
together only in exceptional cases ; a physiognomist 
might have predicted that he would never rise to 
grandeur in his profession. He looked too content, 
too careless, to be ambitious of the highest attaininents. 


96 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


So Brooke thought, and concluded his reflections by- 
saying to himself, “ He might sacrifice music for his 
sweetheart, but he could never neglect his sweetheart 
for music.” 

He gave a little laughing nod to his friends, and 
then, shaking back the long black hair from his ears, 
he raised his head with a certain show of conscious 
pride in his face, and settled his chin upon the violin. 

The piece he played was a simple Sonata of Schu- 
mann’s, upon a level with the musical intelligence of 
his audience. As Brooke was intently listening to the 
performance, he felt a nudge in the side, and Belouse 
whispered — 

“ Look at the old fossil.” 

Brooke cast a glance at Sebastian Fleming, and 
found a marked change in the old man’s demeanor. 
His chin no longer rested on his stick, but, still bent 
forward, he Avas nodding his head — not in time with 
the music, but with his OAvn approval — while the 
movement of his facial muscles kept the corners of 
his thin lips in perpetual movement. 

“ It is the old story of Orpheus and the stones,” con- 
tinued Belouse. “We shall have him dancing pres- 
ently, for a certainty.” 

When the Sonata was finished, Fleming turned 
quietly to Belouse, and asked, in his thin, piping 
voice — 

“ Do you understand anything about music, young 
gentleman ? ” 

“ Well — er — not much ; scientifically, you know.” 

“ Ah ! I thought so ; I saAV you were talking during 
the handsome musician’s performance. Do you know 
anyone who has a better appreeiation of music ? ” 

“My friend, Mr. Brooke, knows more than I do.” 

“ Tell me, IMr. Brooke, if you please, what do you 
think of that performance — of that performance — of 
that performance ? ” Fleming asked eagerly. 

“ I thought it well played,” replied Brooke. 

“ Did you ever hear better playing ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ That is what I wanted to know. Do you think 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


97 


that Mr. Benedick will ever be a grand master — like 
Haydn, or Mozart, or men of that kind ? ” 

“ It is unfair to decide, knowing so little. I have 
not heard Josef Benedick before,” answered Brooke ; 
and he added to himself, “ What on earth makes you 
so eager to know ? Do you wish to spoil him, as other 
musicians have been spoilt, by flattery and patron- 
age ?” 

“I only ask you to tell me what you think.” 

“Judging from Benedick’s appearance, rather than 
from his playing, I should say that he W'ould not rise 
to great eminence in his profession ; — (and I hope that 
may save him from your influence),” Brooke added, 
mentally. 

Fleming nodded his head, muttering again and 
again, “Very good, very good, very good,” and once 
more fixed his eyes on the violinist, who, in response to 
general cries of “ Bis,” had taken up his violin again. 

For the encore he played a solo, with piano accom- 
paniment, of the thrilling pathetic kind to which Rob- 
son had alluded, and while the men showed palpable 
signs of emotion as they listened, Fleming glanced 
from one to another, nodding his head, while the grin 
on his face grew more cruel and more discordant with 
the touching melody. 

When the lied was finished, Sebastian Fleming 
twitched the sleeve of Harold Belouse, and said — 

“ Go and fetch that young man to me. I want him— 
I want him — I want him.” 


7 


98 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

FOUXD. 

The map showed Gerard that the railway station 
nearest to Tosny was at Courseulles, beyond Caen. 
There he arrived fifteen hours after leaving London. 
He was the only traveller by that train, and when he 
stepped upon the platform the officials eyed him sus- 
piciously. A man must have extraordinary motives 
for going to Courseulles two months before the com- 
mencement of the bathing season. Their surprise, 
however, diminished when he made inquiries about 
Tosny ; his pronunciation proclaimed him an English- 
man, and insular eccentricity explained the rest. 

“ Monsieur, Tosny is five leagues from here,” said the 
chef de gare. 

“Is there an omnibus or a diligence that I can take ? ” 
asked Gerard. 

“ In the season, yes ; now, no. Monsieur must walk 
or engage a voiture particulidre, which he may find at 
the Grand Hotel.” 

Gerard went at once to the Grand Hotel in a hopeful 
spirit. He had not eaten since leaving London, and 
the prospect of a good breakfast and a carriage drive 
after was not unpleasant. The front door of the hotel 
was closed ; while he was trying to find an entrance a 
rrian in a blouse came up, and asked him politely what 
he desired. 

“ Breakfast, and a voiture particuli^re afterwards,” 
Gerard said. 

“You can have the voiture, certainly, but breakfast 
is another matter. In the season you could have what- 
ever you desired, but now He shrugged. 

“ You can let me have coffee and bread and but- 
ter?” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


99 


“ Certainly. I will make some coffee at once, and 
there is still some butter left ; I dare say I could boil 
you a few crabs if you can wait.” 

Declining the luxury of warm crabs, Gerard satis- 
fied bis appetite with bread and butter, and started up 
from the table as soon as the sound of wheels announced 
the arrival of the voiture. Tlie voiture particuliere 
was an unpretentious market-cart, somewhat the worse 
for wear and exposure to the rough winter weather ; 
the horse’s harness was an ingenious arrangement of 
straw and rope. The man in the blouse seemed to 
think that some apology was necessary. 

“ Monsieur will understand,” said he, “ that in the 
season we have everything as it should be, but just 
now ” 

“ Never mind. Let us be off,” said Gerard, clamber- 
ing into the cart. 

The wheels were sound and the horse strong, and so 
that he was carried quickly to the succor of poor 
Dorothy, what mattered it how he travelled ? 

The man locked uj) his hotel, took the seat beside 
Gerard, and they started. On the road Gerard made 
inquiries with the hope of learning something respect- 
ing those whom he sought; but the man knew nothing 
of any visitors, and could tell him nothing interesting 
concerning Tosny. It was a villette duller than Cour- 
seulles — a thing which seemed to Gerard impossible — 
divided into two parts ; a collection of new houses by 
the sea, and a settlement of fishers and farmers further 
removed from the sea. In the older j)art, the inhabitants 
spoke a patois unintelligible to most people ; the new 
part was completely deserted out of the season. The 
tradesmen came and went with the visitors, and from 
October to June there was absolutely no one in the 
place except the old villagers. But Gerard was not 
dispirited by what he heard. He felt sure now of find- 
ing Dorothy ; for what place could be more isolated 
and more suitable for seclusion than this village cut 
off from communication with the active world, and 
thinly peopled with ignorant fishers unable to express 
themselves in intelligible language ? 


100 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ Monsieur will doubtless stop at the auberge in the 
old village,” said the driver. 

“ No. Take me to the part you speak of as being 
deserted.” 

The driver obeyed in silence. Monsieur w^as an Eng- 
lishman, and it was therefore useless to argue with him, 
however illogical his proceedings were. On the out- 
skirts of the settlement of villas by the sea, they parted 
company, and Gerard walked down the deserted 
streets to the esplanade. There was no sign of life any- 
where. Hotels, shops, and villas all Avere closed. Not a 
soul was to be seen. He turned to the right and walked to 
the end of the esplanade without finding a single house 
inhabited ; then he retraced his steps to examine the 
villas at the other end. A chilling northeast wind 
blew from the cheerless sea. There was not a ship 
nor a boat in sight. The stunted trees and shrubs 
before the house were leafless. Gerard was oppressed 
Avith a sense of hopelessness and desolation as he looked 
about him. “Have they brought poor Dorothy here 
to kill her? ” he ask himself fiercely. He quickened 
his pace, passing villa after villa, each closed, and its 
shutters encrusted Avith the spume of the Avinter storms, 
until he had come Avithin half a dozen of the last, when, 
he suddenly stopped. In the house before him there were 
unmistakable signs of life. The shutters were thrown 
open, the windows Avere bright, the jardinieres upon the 
terrace Avere planted Avith hardy ferns, and smoke as- 
cended from the chimneys. He opened the gate sharply, 
ran up the stepson to the terrace, and made his Avay to- 
wards the door. As he passed a windoAv opening upon 
the path, he Avas arrested by a sharp cry from Avithin 
the room. He kneAv the voice, and turning to the 
windoAV, he saAV Dorothy there, her face alight Avith 
glad surprise, her trembling hand turning the fastening 
of the croisee. In another minute he had entered the 
room and taken her into his arms. 

“ My darling Dorothy ! ” he said, clasping her closely 
to him. 

“ You dear Gerard ! ” she answered, kissing him be- 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR, 101 

tween each word. He was still to her a brother, and 
she a child beside him. 

He looked eagerly into the delicate sweet face for 
signs of suffering. Her cheeks were flushed with the 
unexpected delight of seeing him ; but there were dark 
lines beneath her eyes, and whilst he yet held her, she 
was attacked by a fit of coughing which obliged her to 
disengage herself from his arms. 

He closed the window, and came to her side with 
quick anxiety. As she recovered, she laughed at the 
expression of alarm in his face. 

“You look quite frightened, Gerard,” she said; “it 
is nothing. Only a little cough. This east wind does 
not suit me. That is why I am at home now a prisoner. 
The worst things have their pleasant side ; but for my 
cough, I should have gone with Mr. and Mrs. Launce 
to Bayeux this morning.” 

“Let us sit by the fire, Dorothy. Take this low 
chair, dear.” 

He seated her, and drawing a chair close beside her, 
sat down, and took her hands in his. 

“ How long have you had this cough, Dorothy ? ” he 
asked, scanning her face. 

“ Only a few days. It is not unusual for one to take 
cold in the spring ; yet one’s friends treat it seriously, 
as if it were an exceptional infliction. Mrs. Launce 
insisted upon seeking a doctor at Bayeux.” 

“ She may have a special interest in preserving your 
health,” Gerard said bitterly. 

“ She has never given me reason to doubt her affec- 
tion,” Dorothy answered, with a gentleness that re- 
buked Gerard for his harsh imputation. 

“ My suspicions may be unjust — I hope they are — 
but they are not groundless. Dolly, tell me, dear, 
why you left London, why you came here, why you 
did not reply to my letter ? ” 

“ For the sake of your uncle.” 

“ You were not compelled by my aunt ?” 

« ;N'o — oh no. It was I who suggested that we 
should leave London.” 

“ You received my letter ? ” 


102 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ Mrs. Launce sent it to me in my room the moment 
it was delivered.” 

“ And you left London to avoid me ; left my letter 
unanswered that 1 might not find you ?” 

“Yes.” 

Gerard looked at her in silence for a moment, then 
reproachfully said, “ Dorothy, have you ceased to love 
me? ” 

“ Oh, Gerard ! ” cried Dorothy, the tears springing 
in her eyes ; “ how can you think that ? It was be- 
cause I loved you that I feared you.” 

“ Feared me ? ” 

“ Yes, for I am feeble ; and those that I love might 
yet turn me from the path my conscience bids me 
take. I fear you now, Gerard, for I know why you 
have come here ; I know why you look so anxious and 
pained. And I am too glad to see you, too fond to bid 
you go, too weak to resist you.” 

“ Why cannot you trust my guidance as in bygone 
times, Dolly?” 

“ Because I am no longer a child. I have only just 
found out that I am a woman, and must think and act 
for myself. It came to me like a revelation on the 
night after the dance, as I sat alone in my room, wonder- 
ing and wondering what I should do, with you pointing 
to one path, and poor Mr. Launce imploring me to 
another. ‘Which way shall I go?’ I asked myself; 
and a voice from my conscience seemed to answer, ‘ Go 
where it is your duty to go.’ ” 

Gerard looked into the clear earnest eyes of the 
young girl, and could not speak. It was not her 
physical beauty alone that thrilled him with delight. 
Dorothy’s soul was revealed to him — noble, sweet, and 
lovable. His heart filled with passionate sympathy, 
as he thought of the struggle she must have made to 
shake off her girlish hopes, and relinquish herself to a 
duty which took the most repulsive form a delicate 
mind could conceive. 

Dorothy saw the look of pain upon his face, and, 
misconstruing it, said — 

“You must not think I love you less because I have 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


103 


altered in some respects. Put yourself in my place. 
A woman yields to those she loves, and when the be- 
loved voice persuades her to do wrong, her only safety 
lies in flight.” 

“ Heaven forbid I should persuade you to do wrong, 
or say anything to shake your resolution, if that 
resolution is right ! Can you think I would ? ” 

“ Not willingly.” 

“ Then why do you fear my influence ? ” 

“ Because you think less of my duty than my hap- 
piness ; and our views of happiness are so different.” 

“ How do they differ ? ” 

“ 1 will try to explain, but it is difficult, for I talk so 
little, and on this subject I have spoken to no one. 
Your idea of happiness is to seek enjoyment in the 
good things of the earth, to live at ease and in peace, 
is it not ? ” 

“ I know of nothing better.” 

“ My idea of happiness is to do the work for which I 
am fitted. And that is not my idea alone. The ar- 
tisan and the artist, if they changed places, would both 
be wretched. I'he artist could find no pleasure in the 
work-shop, and the artisan none in the country, for 
each would be deprived of his special function.” 

“ It may be so with men ; an occupation is necessary 
to them.” 

“ And is it not to women also ? Have we not also 
our functions ? It is our work to comfort and help, to 
nurse and teach. Look at the girls who are given up 
and restricted to indolence and the pursuit of pleasure. 
Are they happy? No. They are of all women the 
most to be pitied.” 

“ Would you abjure pleasure? ” 

“ No, no — a dozen times — no ! I have a keen appe- 
tite for enjoyment. I love dancing and music, and 
the theatre ; I delight to look at shops, and listen to 
gossip and chat. But those enjoyments would be 
doubled if, at the same time, I were doing the good I 
am here to do. Whilst I was uncertain whether to 
save poor Mr. Launce, or relinquish him to his fate, all 
the pleasures that were offered me failed to give me 


1U4 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


happiness. The gayest company, the sweetest scenery, 
were dull to me. I could not forget that your uncle 
sulfered, and that I could relieve his distress. But 
when I had settled the question of duty, and said to 
myself, ‘ I will marry Sebastian Fleming,’ the burden 
was lightened, and every picture and flower that I 
looked at had a sweetness that touched my heart. 
There is significant beauty in everything when the 
heart is receptive. That is common to us all. When 
you have begun a picture, and feel confident in your 
ability to finish it well, do not all your surroundings 
seem more agreeable to you ? ” 

“ Oh yes.” 

“ It is so with me. I look at all things with happier 
eyes now.” 

“ Where did you get these notions, Dorothy ? ” 

Dorothy smiled. 

“ They are notions that must come to most of us 
sooner or later, I think,” she said. “ If I am more per- 
cocious than other girls, it is because I have had so 
much time to think about things. I have been so much 
alone all my life, and had so few companions of my 
own age.” 

“ Poor Dolly ! ” 

“ Why will you pity me ? Granting that I have 
sacrificed some childish hopes and fancies, am I not 
rewarded? Your uncle is rapidly gaining strength 
and tranquillity.” 

“ Have you told him you will marry Sebastian 
Fleming ? ” 

“No; but he knows the resolution I have taken 
nevertheless. Believe me, I am no longer unhappy ! ” 

“ I will believe that you are even happy in accepting 
this sacrifice to a supposed duty ; but you cannot have 
measured the extent of the misery you impose upon 
yourself. A martyr resigning himself to death has less 
to suffer than you, for you devote yourself to an indefi- 
nite period of torture. It may be years and years before 
Sebastian Fleming dies, and you may pray in vain for 
death to take you away from him. You cannot tear 
out your young heart, nor prevent its yearning for love 


FOii LOVE AND no A OIL 


105 


and sympathy. Who may love you — whom dare you 
love ? No one. Sebastian Fleming* is your husband. 
You have all to dread— nothing to hope from such a 
union. Can you inspire that dead and loveless heart 
with affection? Can you, who shudder now at his 
name, hope ever to approach him except with loath- 
ing? You are setting your own judgment too high 
when you determine to abuse the life that has been 
given you, it may be, for a better purpose. Are you 
to decide that there is no higher duty for you than that 
of sacrificing yourself by an unholy marriage ? ” 

Dorothy looked up from the fire, on which her eyes 
had been resting, with affright. It had never entered 
her imagination that she could do wrong by the sacri- 
fice. 

“ What have you to justify your act, Dorothy ? ” 
Gerard continued. “ What have you to prove that it 
is not a moral suicide you are preparing to commit ? 
Can you show that my uncle’s life depends upon this 
marriage ? Can you show that his motive for wishing 
it is not sordid and base ? ” 

“ Oh, it is impossible ! ” 

“ Why ? Has my uncle told you why he wishes you 
to marry Sebastian Fleming ? ” 

“ No.’’ 

“ Sebastian Fleming has told me. He is more open. 
Stephen Launce is his debtor. To gratify his wife’s 
extravagant tastes, my uncle has risked his money in 
unwise speculations, and lost it. He has lost more 
than that. The whole of your fortune entrusted to his 
care is gone. In August next he would be called upon 
to render an account of the trust-money. But Sebastian 
Fleming, like a good man of business, has proposed a 
composition with his creditor. Knowing that he can 
get no pecuniary reimbursement from Stephen Launce, 
he has promised to wipe off all obligations on the day 
of his marriage wdth you. He is vain of his possessions, 
and finds that a beautiful young wife is the only thing 
wanting to complete the furniture of his house. In 
speaking of you he ranked you lower than his diamonds, 
and a little higher than his dogs. He answered my 


lOG 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


questions with the coolest candor, only demanding 
that the facts should be kept secret from Mrs. Launce, 
in consideration of her husband’s tenderness for her 
feelings. And, now, Dolly, you know why my uncle 
desires this marriage.” 

“ Can this be true ? ” asked Dorothy. 

“ I see no reason to doubt Fleming’s word in this 
instance. There is no inducement to lie. My uncle, as 
you know, is a feeble man, rendered more infirm by mis- 
fortunes and years of anxiety and fear. It is natural 
that such a man, loving his wife and fearing her, should 
endeavor to avert from her the remorse she must feel 
in knowing that she has led him into such trouble.” 

Dorothy was silent. Gerard saw a tear slip down 
her cheek as she looked into the fire. He knew that 
she was thinking not of Stephen Launce’s cruel indif- 
ference to her happiness, not of her escape from misery, 
but of the feeble old man’s past troubles and the suf- 
ferings he must yet endure. Gerard did not speak. 
Her merciful compassion made him ashamed of his 
harsher feelings. He took her hand in his with tender 
reverence. The touch awoke her from meditation to 
a sense of present emergency. Lifting her head, and 
turning to Gerard, she said — 

“ If it is only a pecuniary difficulty that embarrasses 
Mr. Launce, we can remove it somehow, can’t we, 
Gerard ! ” 

“ I hope so ; and by some easier means than the 
sacrifice of your gentle life, Dolly. Come, let us look 
at things in a business-like fashion.” 

“Yes, yes,” Dorothy said eagerly, moving her chair 
a little closer to Gerard’s, and looking in his face with 
glad hopeful eyes. 

“ In the first place, we must find out the extent of his 
liabilities ; he will not refuse to tell me when he learns 
that his affairs are no longer secret. Then Tve must 
see what arrangement can be made with his creditors, 
so that he may be able to live comfortably. You are, 
I expect, his heaviest creditor. My uncle owes you 
twenty thousand pounds. What reduction will you 
make to the poor debtor ? ” 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. .107 

“ He is welcome to every farthing of it ; he should 
have more if I had it to give.” 

“ And, with nothing in the world, how will you live ? ” 

“ I will work, as hundreds of girls do. And while I 
am looking about for employment you will let me have 
a little money, won’t you, Gerard ? ” 

“ Every penny that I have, if it is necessary to you, 
you dear little soul ! ” 

He held her hands so tightly, and spoke with such 
passionate fervor in his voice, that she felt bewildered 
for the moment ; then the sound of wheels crushing the 
shells upon the esplanade caught her ear, and she 
rose hastily. 

“ The carriage has returned from Bayeux,” she said. 


108 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


CHAPTER XV. 

CONVALESCENT. 

They arose, as the handle of the door turned. Dor- 
othy, fearing a repetition of the scene which had taken 
place at the former meeting of Gerard with his uncle, 
trembled violently, and instinctively clung to his arm 
for support. Her attitude was full of significance to 
Stephen Launce when he halted upon the threshold, 
and looked from her to him. 

He made no cry of terror, he scarcely showed sur- 
prise; there was no eager pretence of pleasure, no 
nervous anxiety to conciliate in his behavior now. He 
stood looking at Gerard stolidly for a moment, and 
then he dropped his chin upon his breast, as if submit- 
ting to an expected sentence. His wife felt his arm 
trembling under her hand, and, looking in his face, 
saw in the compressed lips, the dilatation of the nos- 
trils, the contraction of the wrinkled old brows, an 
expression of forced resignation, as though he were 
controlling himself to bear manfully a pang of mortal 
agony. 

Raising his head with an effort he said, in quaver- 
ing tones — 

“ You have come to see me, Gerard ? ” 

“ Yes, I have come to see you and Dorothy, sir.” 

“ Leave me, dear,” Stephen Launce said to his wife. 

“ And you, Dorothy, my child, leave the room also. 
I wish to be alone with Gerard for a time. I am 
quite strong,” he added, to Mrs. Launce. “ I will sit 
here. Go, my beloved wife. Have no fear for me.” 

Mrs. Launce said not a word to Gerard; but she 
cast u, glance of hatred and bitter reproach upon him 
as she left her husband and passed towards the door. 
Dorothy followed her from the room. 

Stephen Launce looked at Gerard for a few moments 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


109 


without speaking ; then, his lips twitching convulsively, 
he said — 

“Give me your hand, Gerard — give me your hand; 
we will^not he enemies.” 

“ God forbid ! ” Gerard said warmly, as he took the 
thin weak hand in his. 

“ Thanks to the sea air and a little season of hope 
and rest, my mind has grown strong since we last met. 
It has strengthened every day, and I feel more rational 
and calm than I have felt for many — many months. 
Take that chair, and tell me why you have come.” 

“I am glad to hear of this change,” Gerard said, 
seating himself near his uncle; “and I hope that 
what I have to say and suggest may increase your 
calm, and help to your recovery of perfect health.” 

Stephen Launce, with his arms resting on the elbows 
of the chair, his head sunk in his breast, made a move- 
ment with his hands and lips expressive of assent, if 
not of hope. 

“ I have had an interview with Sebastian Fleming,” 
Gerard continued. 

Stephen Launce inclined his head without demon- 
strating any surprise. 

“ And he told me candidly the state of your affairs, 
and the understanding that exists between you.” 

“ What understanding ? ” Stephen Launce asked 
quickly, raising himself in his chair. 

“ The understanding that all your obligations to him 
should be wiped off on the day of his marriage with 
Dorothy.” 

“ Did he explain the nature of my obligations?” 

“ Yes. He said you were his debtor, and that you 
had lost the fortune entrusted to your keeping for 
Dorothy. From which I conclude that he would 
restore that fortune to her when ” 

“ Yes, yes, yes,” Stephen Launce said, interrupting 
Gerard ; “ everything was to be set straight on the day 
of Dorothy’s marriage. Her hand was to pay off all 
scores.” 

“ I hope we shall be able to clear up your affairs 
without paying so terrible a price as that.” 


110 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ It is a terrible price, is it not ? You wonder, per- 
haps, how I came to accept it. I did not know Dor- 
othy ; her soul bad not been opened, as it were. I 
was bewildered by the complication of my affairs, and 
I thought the child might make herself happy with 
luxury and wealth, as women of modern society do. 
In my desire to justify my purpose I collected many, 
many instances of women, beautiful and well-born who 
had married without affection, without the hope of 
loving their husbands or being loved by them, whose 
sole motive in marrying was to obtain position and 
money. But happiness of that kind is impossible for 
Dorothy. I suspected it long since, I know it now 
that I am more reasonable and calm. Money to her is 
nothing but metal. She would kill herself for love, 
but she would not step aside from her path for all the 
luxury that gold can procure. I have tried to cheat 
myself into the belief that her opposition to a marriage 
de co7ivenance was but a girlish prejudice, which would 
pass away as the romance of youth gave place to the 
more realistic ideas of womanhood. I have still clung 
to the hope, unreasonably — as the drowning man un- 
reasonably hopes that the straw he clutches at may 
sustain him. I have tried to believe the arguments of 
my poor wife, but every day their strength has dimin- 
ished in proportion as my own perception of right 
and wrong has grown more clear and just. To-day, I 
hope no more.” 

He sank back in his chair. 

“ I trust that we may still hope, but with a better 
and surer prospect of success,” said Gerard. 

Stephen Launce lifted his fingers and dropped them 
upon the chair, but there was no alteration in the 
apathetic dulness of his expression. 

“ There is a speedy means of overcoming your diffi- 
culties,” said Gerard. 

“ Is there ? ” said Stephen Launce, in a mechanical 
tone, without raising his eyes. 

“Tell Sebastian Ideming that you refuse your con- 
sent to Dorothy’s marriage with him, and take the 
consequences.” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


Ill 


Stephen Launce gave a short, hard laugh. 

“ At the worst,” continued Gerard, “ he can hut take 
your house in Kensington, and all it contains.” 

“ They are his already. The coat on my hack is his.” 

“ Let him take that if he will. What then ? Dorothy 
forgives you freely every farthing of her money that 
you have lost, and whilst I have anything to give you 
shall not want.” 

“ Thank you, Gerard, thank you. It is very good of 
you. Perhaps I shall ask you for help for my wife. 
Dorothy’s forgiveness is no more than I expected, sweet 
child ! ” 

“ How much do your debts amount to, sir ? ” 

“I do not know. Thousands — thousands. When 
one speculation after another failed, and Dorothy’s 
fortune was all lost, I gave up all hope of winning back 
what was gone, and ceased to keep account. But 
Fleming knows to a farthing. He forgets nothing, 
loses nothing, feels nothing. I will speak to him on 
Sunday ; perhaps he will be generous.” A faint spark 
of hope lit up his face for a moment in speaking of 
Fleming’s possible generosity. 

“ You can dispense with his generosity, sir. He is 
not the man who would do anything for nothing, and 
doubtless in advancing money to you he has secured 
interest to rej^ay the capital.” 

“Yes, yes, yes — he might be generous,” Stephen 
Launce continued, evidently following his own train of 
thought rather than Gerard’s. 

“ Do not trust to him, uncle. Rely upon yourself. 
Refund what you can, and start with an easy conscience, 
and the love of those about you.” 

“ Ah, that is something — to die, and know that those 
you leave will not reproach your memory.” 

“ Why do you talk of dying ? You are not old.” 

“ Yes, I am old — quite old. At the most I could not 
live more than five or six years. The insurance people 
calculated that I should not live beyond sixty years.” 

“ You have insured your life ? ” 

“ Yes. Fleming has the policy. I think he will be 
generous, and yet ” 


112 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


He paused, and the feverish anxiety which Gerard 
had seen in his eyes when they met at Grandison House 
glittered in them now. 

Possibly the interview had overtaxed his yet feeble 
powers, Gerard thought ; and to encourage him, and 
put an end to the present conversation, he rose from 
his seat, and said — 

“ We will put the matter plainly before him, and hear 
what he says ; we will hope always for the best.” 

“You will stay with us, Gerard?” 

“Yes, sir; I hope to be of service. I have money, 
and you may want it.” 

“ My poor wife may. She has never suffered poverty, 
and she is proud. I would not have her know that I 
am in debt, or that I have to borrow for her.” 

“ She shall never know from me.” 

“ God bless you, my boy ? And He will bless you,” 
the old man said impressively, laying his trembling 
hand on Gerard’s shoulder, “ for He punishes those who 
offend against His laws.” 

Gerard bowed, wondering what law this poor sufferer 
had violated. 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


113 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A PROPOSAL. 

Stephen Lafnce made a faint show of hospitality, 
offering to place a couple of rooms at Gerard’s disposal 
until he left Tosny ; but this offer Gerard declined, 
much as he desired to be near Dorothy. He had no 
intention of leaving Tosny while Dorothy remained ; 
and determined not again to lose sight of her. As a 
visitor and, to Mrs, Launce, an unwelcome guest, he 
could not protract his stay beyond a few days. More- 
over, he feared the effect of his presence upon Stephen 
Launce, whose mind evidently was yet feeble. Excite- 
ment might produce a relapse into that state of morbid 
terror which had jeopardized and might again jeopar- 
dize Dorothy’s welfare. Dorothy had admitted her 
inability to oppose the persuasions of those she loved ; 
therefore, while she remained under the roof of Stephen 
Launce, she was in danger. 

Promising to dine with his uncle, Gerard left the 
house. In the old part of the villette he took the best 
rooms he could find, through the mediation of the 
aubergist, who, having served in the army, could speak 
intelligible French as well as the unintelligible patois. 

Half an hour before the appointed time for dinner 
Gerard found himself upon the esplanade. His uncle 
was walking there alone, and catching sight of him the 
moment he appeared, walked towards him with quick 
short steps. 

“ You are late, my boy,” he said, taking his arm. “ I 
have been looking for you some time. I want to speak 
to you before we go in. I have spoken to my dear wife, 
and you will find she regards you no longer with 
hostility ; and I had spoken also to Dorothy. I told 
them both that I set my face against Sebastian Flem- 


114 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


ing’s offer of marriage, and I begged Dorothy to reject, 
also, a proposal which could result in nothing but un- 
happiness to herself. They were astonished by what 
I said — no wonder, poor souls ! after seeing how I had 
set my heart upon the marriage during the past 
months. But I explained it to them, showing how my 
mind had been distressed, and how strong it is getting 
with this beautiful sea air, and a temporary absence 
from the anxiety of business. Sweet Dorothy threw 
her arms about my neck and cried with joy — but as 
much to think that my health is restored, as for her 
own happiness, I believe. But it is not that I wish to 
speak to you about, not that. We were talking this 
morning of Sebastian Fleming, and you told me you 
had seen him.” 

“ He gave me your address, and offered to bring me 
here.” 

“That was kind of him, was it not? He must have 
liked you to make that offer. I should think he would 
like you : most people do.” 

“ It is immaterial to me ; I don’t like him,” said 
Gerard. 

“ His appearance is repulsive, but there are points 
in his character to admire. He is a wonderful man 
of business, so clear-headed, and with such a wonder- 
ful memory — don’t judge him too hastily. We were 
talking about the possibility of his being generous, 
you know ; and I have been thinking, Gerard, thinking 
a good deal about that since the morning. It appears 
to me that he might be more inclined to listen to your 
appeal on my behalf than to me. He does not like me, 
Gerard ; he never did. It is not to be supposed he 
should. We are so opposite in everything. He is so 
strong and clear in mental faculties, and I am so weak and 
confused. But he would respect you for your strength, 
and be more patient in listening to your fresh argu- 
ment, than to my old, old entreaties that he has heard 
so often.” 

“ Do you wish me to ask him to release you from 
your obligations ? ” 

“Yes, Gerard, yes!” The wind blew fresh and 


FOn LOVE AND HON OB. 115 

cool; nevertheless, beads of perspiration stood on 
Stephen Launce’s brow and trickled down his temples. 
“ I don’t expect that he will free me entirely. You can 
say so, if he grows impatient — not all.” 

“ I will do what I can. Have no fear, sir ; if he 
refuses to yield anything, you can rely upon me.” 

“ Yes, yes ; but you will ask him, will you not ? ” 

Gerard gave his promise, and the old man, pressing 
his hand with grateful warmth, proposed that they 
should enter the house. 

He was unduly excited by this faint hope of Fleming's 
generosity. It was painful to every one at the table to 
witness his endeavors to promote gaiety during the 
dinner. He drank nothing but water ; otherwise, one 
would have considered him under the influence of wine. 
Gerard was struck by the seeming inconsistency of his 
behavior. Dorothy’s willing renunciation of her claim, 
his own offer of pecuniary assistance, had produced 
scarcely any effect upon him ; but the mere possibility 
of Fleming’s forbearance transported him with delight. 
It was a mystery which Gerard could only explain, as 
he had explained, the mystery before, by considering 
his uncle’s intellect deranged. 

The evening was clear and fine ; light yet lingered 
over the sea when dinner was ended. Stephen Launce, 
complaining of the heat in the room, walked out upon 
the esplanade ; Mrs. Launce accompanied him, leaving 
Dorothy with Gerard. 

Briefly Gerard recounted the conversation which had 
taken place between himself and his uncle. In con- 
clusion, he said — 

“ I am anxious for Sebastian Fleming to come, for, 
though we have little to hope from his generosity, we 
may learn definitely what his intentions are as respects 
my uncle’s debt. It will be better to know the worst 
than to know nothing. Distracted between extrava- 
gant hope and fear, my uncle’s mind cannot rest.” 

“ What would the worst be ? ” Dorothy asked. 

“ The necessity of living simply, and accepting such 
assistance as we can give him.” 

“ His tastes are not extravagant ; he would like noth- 


116 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


ing better than a retired quiet life ; and Mrs. Launce, 
I know, would willingly relinquish the pleasures of 
society for the happiness of seeing her husband at rest.'” 

“ I believe he owes all his misfortunes, all his misery 
to Sebastian Fleming ; if he can free himself from that 
connection, his mind, free from fear and unclouded by 
reproach, will quickly regain strength.” 

“ That is reasonable to suppose, is it not ? ” 

“Yes. But Sebastian Fleming may see that also, 
and so refuse a definite statement of his intentions, in 
order to prolong my uncle’s suspense.” 

“ Why should he be so cruel ? What motive could 
he have ?” 

“ The hope that he might yet succeed in making you 
his wife. He may yet expect to profit by Stephen 
Launce’s influence over you ; and not without reason, if 
he knows your character.” 

“You have shown me that the marriage would be 
wrong.” 

“ Yes, Dolly ; and you have shown me that love and 
pity can warp your judgment of right and wrong. 
You are not free to fly from Mr. Launce, as you fled 
from me, until August ; that leaves you for two months 
open to danger. I cannot enter the house if Mrs. Launce 
shuts the door. All this Sebastian Fleming will con- 
sider, if I am not mistaken in his shrewdness, and 
while there is a way left for you to be moulded to his 
will by means of my uncle’s distress and terror, he will 
refuse to liberate him from his obligations.” 

“ IIow can we overcome this difficulty, Gerard dear ? ” 
Dorothy asked, looking into his face with the old ex- 
pression of childish reliance upon his wise guidance. 

“ There is one short method, Dorothy.” 

“ What is it, Gerard ? ” 

“ Do you remember what we were saying when the 
return of the carriage from Bayeux this morning inter- 
rupted our conversation ? ” 

“ Let me think,” Dorothy said, putting her finger on 
her lips. “ Oh yes, I recollect quite well. I asked you 
if you would let me have a little money if I wanted it, 
and you said you would give me every farthing you 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


117 


possessed ; and then I remember you pressed my hand 
so hard, and looked into my eyes with such strange 
wildness that I felt for the moment alarmed.” 

“ Do you know why I would give . all that I have, to 
the last drop of blood in my heart, to you ? ” 

Dorothy grew a little paler, for he held her before 
him, his strong hands grasping her arms, and with the 
passion once more in his eyes. 

“You love me, don’t you, Gerard dear?” she fal- 
tered, half terrified, wholly perplexed by his manner. 

“ Love you, Dorothy ! I love you with my whole 
soul. And this is what I would say to Sebastian 
Fleming: ‘You cannot hope to marry Miss Gordon, 
for Dorothy is my wife.’ ” 

“Your wife, Gerard?” she asked, with wondering 
incredulity in her tone. 

“ Poor, sweet Dorothy,” he said, relaxing his grasp 
slightly, and bringing her a little nearer to him, as his 
eyes dwelt tenderly upon her lovely little face, “ have 
you thought of an old, old loveless husband so long 
that you cannot realize the possibility of marrying one 
yet young, and with a heart brimming over with 
love ? ” 

“ Oh, Gerard dear, do you mean that you will marry 
me?” she said, her voice quavering, for she was partly 
inclined to laugh at the oddness of it all, partly inclined 
to cry with the sudden revulsion caused by the unex- 
pected prospect of happiness. 

“ I only wait for you to say you will be my wife, 
darling, to seal the contract.” 

“ I will, dear,” she cried aloud ; and then he brought 
her to his breast, and pressed kisses on her lips to con- 
firm the union of their hearts. 


118 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

FRIEND OR FOE ? 

» 

When Stephen Launce returned from his walk on 
the esplanade, he was much more collected than when 
he left the dining-room. He listened calmly as Gerard 
told him what had taken place during his absence, and 
with the same appearance of resignation he had shown 
in the morning interview. 

“It is not unexpected,” he said. “My dear wife 
prepared me for this news, while we were walking. 
She said you would make Dorothy your wife ; women 
are quick to foresee events of this nature.” 

“ It will prevent Mr. Fleming entertaining any doubt 
as to his marriage,” said Gerard. 

“Yes, yes; but it is not likely to incline him to be 
generous to me. I am afraid of him. I am afraid. I 
must not encourage any hope ; it distracts me.” 

“ It will be best not to hope for kindness from him ; 
but you may rely upon my assistance.” 

“You will be good to my wife, as to me, my boy. 
She is an excellent and good soul, though inimical in- 
terests have somewhat opposed you. You will be good 
to her.” 

“ And to you, also? sir. You trust my word ? ” 

“Yes, Gerard, yes. Some of our family have been 
weak ; but not weak enough to lie. May you be happy, 
Gerard, and my sweet Dorothy be happy also ! God 
bless you both ! ” 

On the following day, Saturday, Gerard and Dorothy 
were together for several hours, Stephen Launce find- 
ing occupation in assorting letters and papers, which 
confined him to his room, and Mrs. Launce having 
arrangements to make for the reception of Sebastian 
Fleming. 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


119 


Dorothy’s spirits rose with the change in her pros- 
pects. She entered eagerly into Gerard’s plans for 
their future home, and she shared the pleasure which 
he felt in speaking of their being constantly together, 
but in a different manner. Gerard looked at the future 
from a lover’s point of view, as a season of perpetual 
delight, of endless love and, devotion ; the home of 
which he spoke was merely a suitable frame for the 
exquisite picture. Details concerning servants, furni- 
ture, and housekeeping he treated as trivialities too 
mean to think of in connection with the main subject 
of mutual delight. But these details were of great im- 
portance to Dorothy ; they formed the great attraction 
of married life — as apart from a mere union of two 
friends. She liked to think of the difficulties to be 
encountered in her menage., which would be overcome 
by appealing to the wisdom of her husband, and faith- 
fully following his directions. She would have felt 
exactly the same had Gerard been in reality her 
brother, and had proposed nothing more than that 
they should keep house together. She did not under- 
stand the passionate side of his love. Her heart was 
not yet strung to vibrate with and respond in tender 
harmonies to the breath of love. He kissed her almost 
fiercely at times, and his eyes seemed to burn her, and 
she v/as rather alarmed than gratified by these tokens 
of rapture. She said to herself that she loved him 
more than she had ever loved him before ; and this 
comprised all ; for while Gerard’s love differed in kind, 
hers differed only in degree. 

However, they were both happy ; Gerard in looking 
at her and listening, with some amusement, to her re- 
marks upon domestic economy, and she in thinking 
that henceforward she should always have some one 
to give her counsel, and keep her from doing unwise 
things. 

Poor little soul! How could she dream that the 
stream of her life, now so easily diverted from one 
course to another, might in time assume the propor- 
tions of an ungovernable torrent ? 

On Sunday the carriage was sent to Bayeux to meet 


120 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


the express from Paris ; and in due course it returned 
with Sebastian Fleming inside, and one of his servants 
on the box — the other followed in a voiture. He was 
lifted out and transported into the house, where he 
stood like a hideous toy, while the servants took off 
his enormous coat of fur, looking round with his dull, 
opalescent eyes, taking in one after another of the 
figures that surrounded him. Doubtless his quick 
brain gauged every sign that was presented by the 
features of those he saw. When he was disembar- 
rassed of gloves and coat the servants helped him to 
walk into the salon, and after his querulous instruc- 
tions had been carried out, and the chair placed exactly 
where he wished it to be, they seated him, and at a 
sign left him. 

“ You will pardon me for sitting,” he said, “ the 
fatigue of the journey — the fatigue of the journey.” 

Mrs. Launce said some civil sentence, and came to 
his side. He raised her hand half-way to his lips, and 
dismissed it with an inclination of his head. Stephen 
Launce approached him, and received one bony finger 
in sign of amity. 

“ You seem better, Stephen — not so talkative, not 
so fussy — tant mieux — tant mieux — tant mieiix^'* said 
Fleming. “ Where’s Miss Gordon — beautiful Miss 
Gordon ? ” 

Gerard led Dorothy forward and turned his eyes 
upon the ground as the old man took her hand, which 
seemed to him profaned by the touch of such a 
creature. 

“ A little thinner, a little more delicate even than 
when last I held it — this pretty hand, this pretty 
hand,” said Sebastian Fleming. “ Well, well, we can- 
not all be strong and robust like Mr. Gerard — strong 
and robust — strong and robust,” he added, in a low 
undertone, fixing his eyes upon Gerard. 

Called upon to say something, Gerard went to the 
point at once. 

“ I have to introduce Miss Gordon to you as my af- 
fianced wife, Mr. Fleming,” he said. 

“ I am not surprised,” Fleming said, with an incli- 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


121 


nation of his head to Dorothy. “ I was prepared for 
this event by what transpired in my interview with 
Mr. Gerard a few days since ; and my own disappoint- 
ment is lessened by knowing what happiness awaits 
one whom I desire to serve — desire to serve — whom I 
desire to serve.” 

Gerard was perplexed. Had he deceived himself, or 
was Sebastian Fleming trying to deceive him ? Later 
in the day he found an opportunity of getting that 
question answered. Being alone with Sebastian 
Fleming, he said — 

“ You spoke this morning of your desire to serve 
me? ” 

“ Yes, and I spoke with sincerity,” answered 
Fleming. “ I hope to serve you as I served your 
father, Mr. Gerard.” 

“ Then I will claim your kindness now. My mar- 
riage with Miss Gordon removes the only means my 
uncle had of discharging his obligations to you. He 
stands a helpless debtor at your mercy.” 

“ What has he to fear ? He should know my busi- 
ness principles sufficiently by this time to be certain 
that I shall not throw good money away after bad. 
In business I have no sentiment — neither of kindness 
nor revenge. If I have been so unwise as to make a 
bad debt, I must abide by it. If he cannot pay what 
he owes, there is an end of the matter.” 

“ He does not realize that. As you see, his mind is 
not healthily strong. Doubtless you have certain 
papers — I O IT’s and the like — which he has given you.” 

“ He shall have them all back. They are useless to 
me.” 

“ I thank you, Mr. Fleming.” 

“ Why ? I have done nothing to deserve your thanks. 
He could have had them himself for the asking, now 
that they are of no further use to me. Did he speak 
of nothing else — nothing ? ” 

“ He said that you could claim everything he pos- 
sesses.” 

“ That is true. I have a bill of sale.” 

“ May I ask you to give that up ? ” 


122 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“Yes, I will return it with the I O IT’s.” 

“ It will be a great relief to him to know that he can 
yet realize something from the wreck of his fortunes. 
I am very grateful to you, Mr. Fleming.” 

“Is there anything else I can do ?” 

“ Nothing that I will ask. What further help my 
uncle needs I can give him. He will he content to give 
up the style of living he has been used to.” 

“ There I differ with you. For his wife’s sake he 
would regret any sacrifice of position. And for that 
reason I suggest that I should be permitted to make him 
an allowance of say a thousand a year during his lifetime 
— during his lifetime — during his lifetime.” 

Gerard opened his eyes in astonishment. 

“ I should not have dared to ask you to do so much,” 
he said. 

“ It is no more than reason bids me do in my own 
interest. I have tried to get some compensation for my 
loss, and failed. I must guard against losing more. 
If the name of Launce were withdrawn from the firm, 
and the rumor were spread that a partner had retired 
and was living in poverty, the effect upon the market 
would be bad. Men would suspect the solvency of the 
remaining partner, and the prejudice would be ruinous 
to my commercial prosperity. All this has been duly 
considered, Mr. Gerard ; and you simply suggest the 
means of doing that which it is my policy to do. So 
that I am still at your service if you wish for my 
assistance.” 

“ I have nothing more to ask, sir,” Gerard said, looking 
at the old man with something like awe. 

“ Well, well, we will hope that a day may arrive 
when I can render you absolute service. And, who 
knows ! it may — it may — it may ! ” 


FOE LOVE AND HONOE. 


123 


CHAPTER XVIII. 
josef’s patron. 

We were living at this time — my son Josef and I — 
in Nelson Square, Blackfriars, on the upper floor of a 
hat manufactory. The surrounding neighborhood was 
poor and noisy, but the square had a distinct air of 
gentility which was maintained by a beadle, who forbade 
costermongers or itinerant musicians to disturb the 
tranquillity of its inhabitants. The hat-makers in the 
factory below were not noisy, and the sounds from the 
great thoroughfare reached our ears only as a kind 
of murmur which did not disturb us when we were 
practising, or when Josef had “ melos ” to compose, or 
music to arrange for the theatre. W e kept no servant, 
but a good woman came in every morning to keep the 
rooms neat and clean, and we had neighbors — a widow 
and her daughter — who were ever ready to give us 
assistance in purchasing and mending linen things. 
The cooking 1 did myself ; it is an employment I 
like. 

It will be seen that we lived in what is called “ a poor 
way ; ” but, by long years of forced economy, I have 
learned to find pleasure in thrift. Moreover, it behooved 
me to be discreet even at that time when Josef was 
getting six pounds a week from the Levity, and my 
engagements were bringing me in between three and 
four pounds more. For we had not long enjoyed such 
good fortune, and as nothing is more insecure than 
good fortune, it is necessary to guard against adverse 
contingencies, and keep a little sum of money in reserve. 
A musician is always more or less at the mercy of 
circumstances ; by no fault of his own he may lose one 
engagement, and be unable to obtain another; an 
accident or an illness may at any moment incapacitate 


124 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


him for work, and then he ceases to earn a living. 
For this reason I have often regretted that I was a 
musician, and not a chandler. Josefs temperament 
had given me cause for great anxiety. His personal 
beauty, his undoubted talent, I might be allowed to say 
genius for music, his generosity and unvarying amia- 
bility procured him friends and admirers wherever 
he went ; but their admiration and flattery encouraged 
him in thoughtless extravagance and indifference to 
the serious questions of life, to which he was naturally 
too strongly inclined. 

From the age of fifteen, when he commenced to play 
in public, he had won and lost scores of different en- 
gagements. Indeed, his conduct towards his employers 
was trying to the last degree. When he was first violin 
and playing in the same orchestra with me I have 
known him to walk in after the overture, and, going 
out between the acts, failed to return ; on certain even- 
ings he never came at all ; and always there was the 
same excuse — “he had met a friend,” wdiich, as the 
conductor pointed out, was no excuse at all. There 
was not a more unpunctual or careless bandsman in 
all London. He would not rehearse, and did not even 
take the precaution to see that his proper parts were 
set on his stand, so that I have seen him looking over 
the shoulder of the second fiddle and improvising the 
first as he went on. Scolding had no effect upon him ; 
he took all rebukes with good nature, and treated his 
fault as a joke. He had an admirable engagement at 
the Crystal Palace, which I fervently hoped he would 
keep. One day he came home a couple of hours before 
the ordinary time. “ What is the matter, Josef ?” I 
asked. “Oh,” said he, “it seems Manns told me he 
could dispense with my services this week, but I forgot 
all about it until the old boy reminded me of it.” 
Then he took up his violin and played a lilt, as if the 
loss of a good prospect in life made no difference. 

It seemed incredible to me, who have never once 
been a moment behind my appointments, that this boy, 
who continually broke his engagements, was my son. 
It must not be supposed that he was untruthful ; on the 


FOE LOVE AND HONOE. 


125 


contrary, the only thing he ever adhered to consistently 
was his promise. If he could he induced to give his 
word that he would do such or such a thing, nothing 
would divert him from its accomplishment. Those 
who knew him said truly enough that Josef Benedick 
could keep nothing hut his word. 

But the conductor of a band cannot be supposed to 
exact a promise of punctuality from each individual 
of his company ; he makes his appointments and ex- 
pects that they shall be kept with promptitude, and 
that was just why Josef was always getting into 
trouble and losing his chances. A mere order, a threat, 
a request which required no formal acquiescence, had 
not the slightest weight on his mind. If he felt dis- 
posed to take his place in the orchestra, he took it ; if 
not, he stayed away. It was as if he had been con- 
ferring a favor upon his employer, but with this dif- 
ference, that, had it been in reality a favor, he would 
have performed it with more care. I suppose that this 
carelessness arose from a want of any real interest, 
either pecuniary or artistic, in the kind of work he 
did. He did not understand the value of money — ex- 
cept when he had none — and to play orchestral parts 
did not excite his ambition. lie did not care for fine 
clothes or jewellery, and could not be brought to see 
the advantage of having a nice little sum of money in 
the post-office savings bank. So long as he had enough 
money to treat a friend to refreshments, or to take his 
sweetheart out for a day’s enjoyment, he was perfectly 
content. 

He had hundreds of friends — it seemed to me that not 
a day passed without his adding to the number -^good, 
bad, and indifferent — always glad to make him drink 
or to drink at his expense. I am sorry to say Josef 
came home frequently in a state of intoxication, which 
has filled me with indescribable sorrow and apprehen- 
sion. “It can’t be helped,” he would say the next 
morning, “ I met a friend.” That was forever his ex- 
cuse. Slany a time I have wished that he had no 
friend in the world but his old father. And if he had 
hundreds of friends, I must safely say he had dozens 


126 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


of sweethearts. Lord! every wonan that saw him 
loved him. AVhen I have walked along the streets 
with him and seen how every girl and woman looked 
at him with that expression in their eyes which was 
absent when they looked at me, I have asked myself, 
“ Are none of these women engaged or married, or are 
they all unfaithf id ? ” I believe Josef might have made 
eyes at the Queen of England without giving offence. 

Of course, he was not seriously in love with any of 
the girls, or jealousy would quickly have diminished 
their number. They. were to him what children are to 
old men, or domestic pets to children. If he liked one 
more than another it was the daughter of the widow, 
our neighbor, who, as I have said, gave me her assist- 
ance occasionally in domestic affairs. They lived next 
door to us, and upon the same floor, and as we lived in 
the extreme corner of the square, and the house in 
which they lived stood at right angles with ours, we 
could talk to each other from the windows. 

Mrs. Grey was a tiny, neat-figured little woman of fifty 
or thereabouts, with a sweet, fair face, and white hair. 
She was poor, but, as all the neighbors allowed, “ quite 
the lady ! ” and, indeed, she had one married daughter, 
who kept a baker’s shop at Claphain, who might have 
been taken any day for a duchess, so rich and elegant 
were the dresses she wore when she made her appear- 
ance in the square. Mrs. Grey had four daughters, but 
all had broken away from the maternal apron-string 
except Sarah ; she remained at home, and did more than 
all the rest, I believe, to comfort and support her 
mother. A cheerful, warm-hearted, active, courageous 
little soul was Sarah, not showy, like her sister of the 
baker’s shop, but with an expression of downright 
honesty and fidelity in her face, which left nothing to 
desire, as do the more extrinsic kinds of beauty. 

It must have been a difficult thing for her to make 
ends meet, to keep up the appearance of decent comfort 
which their home never lacked ; to keep clear of debt, 
and yet have a new bonnet or dress for Bank Holiday. 
But she did it by dint of hard work and late hours, and 
never gave her mother cause to regret her own feeble- 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


127 


ness, by one word of complaint. She was always ready 
to laugh, and sang as she bent over the tedious work,, 
which never seemed to have an end. She v/as older 
than Josef, but I used to hope that he would marry her 
one day when his wildness abated. Of course, he did 
not love her seriously, any more than he loved his other 
sweethearts ; but he liked her more. And she knew 
well enough that his sentiment was no more than it 
pretended to be — a kind of mock sentiment, with a 
strong basis of friendly affection. It was a joke and 
nothing more. 

I don’t think she went so far as to share my hope 
that he would one day make her his wife. She had a 
deep reverence for his genius, and knew full well her 
own shortcomings. She knew nothing of music be- 
yond what she heard. She was not clever at anything 
but needlework, and making her money go much farther 
than most people’s. It was just for that reason I hoped 
Josef would one day marry her: for women of this 
simple, unpretentious kind make the very best of wives, 
and wean their husbands from temptation by present- 
ing the more seductive charms of a well-ordered, com- 
fortable home. It may be true that bad husbands make 
bad wives ; but it is still more true that flighty women 
make flighty husbands. 

Nothing, however, seemed further from Josef’s 
thoughts than marriage. And I was glad that his folly 
did not lead him that way : for what prospect of hap- 
piness in married life was there for one so improvident 
and reckless ? At times I used to despair of his alter- 
ing for the better, and entertained dismal forebodings 
of his falling altogether under the pernicious influence 
of unthinking friends and flatterers. But he seemed to 
change for the better when the baton of the Levity 
orchestra was offered to him. On that occasion I tried 
to exact a promise from him to the effect that he would 
not neglect his duties, but he refused, as usually he did, 
if it was possible, to bind himself under any obligation 
saying, “ No, father, I will promise nothing : but have 
no fear, I have something to work for now — the credit 
of my orchestra. I shan’t neglect my work.” 


128 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


And it seemed as though he intended to carry out 
this resolution faithfully ; he left home at regular times, 
and was indefatigable in composing the incidental 
music for a new drama about to be produced, and in 
rehearsing it at the theatre. 

It was in his absence at one of these rehearsals, and 
while I was busy making an omelette for my dinner, 
that a servant in livery came to my door and asked if 
Josef was at home. The servant looked so magnificent 
with his silk stockings and powdered hair that for a 
moment astonishment prevented my speaking. 

“ No, sir,” I answered, when I had overcome my sur- 
prise. “ Josef Benedick is at the Levity Theatre ; but 
I am his father, and if you have any message I will 
deliver it the moment he returns.” 

He left me, saying he would inform his master, and 
as he descended the stairs I ran to the window, and, 
looking down, saw a carriage waiting before the door. 
It was not an ordinary brougham, but a large carriage 
with a maroon-colored body, with a hammer-cloth on 
the box-seat, large springs behind with a footboard and 
steps for servants, just like the state equipages of the 
nobility which one may see occasionally at the West 
End. A second servant in livery was keeping back 
the crowd of children and idle folks who had flocked 
together to see so strange a sight as this carriage and 
pair presented in our quiet square. 

The servant who had come up to my rooms pres- 
ently approached the door of the carriage, and, as I 
supposed, delivered my message. After that he opened 
the door, and the other servant coming to his assist- 
ance, they lifted out the strange little old man I had 
seen at Mr. Stephen Launce’s house, and whom I had 
heard was Sebastian Fleming, the millionaire. They 
crossed the pavement and entered the house, and I saw 
that Mr. Fleming was about to be brought up into my 
rooms. I had scarcely time to thrust the frying-pan 
under the bed, to clear away the egg-shells and butter, 
to fling the Sunday newspaper out of the window, and 
lay a score of music in its place upon the table, to put 
on my coat and wash my hands, before I heard the 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


129 


thin treble voice of the old man scolding his servants 
outside my door. They brought him in and seated him 
in an elbow-chair, where he sat for some moments in 
silence, his body bent forwards, and his shoulders 
heaving, the nostrils of his hooked nose distended, a 
meaningless, fixed grin in his hollow cheeks, and his eyes 
wandering every three or four seconds from one object 
to another in the room. It seemed to me that he saw 
every thing, even the handle of the frying-pan, which in 
my haste I had left protruding beyond the valance of 
the bed. 

“ Go outside,” he said, with a sudden snap to the 
servants. They withdrew, closing the door softly after 
them. 

“ Your son Josef,” he said, fixing his strange eyes 
upon me. 

“ I am sorry to say he is out at a rehearsal of ” 

“ Yes, yes,” he interrupted testily. “ The servant 
has delivered your message. I want to know what he 
has not told me. Tell me about your son Josef — what 
he has done, what he is going to do — his character, his 
mode of life, his position — all that, all that, all 
that.” 

As well as I could, being nervous, I told Mr. Flem- 
ing all that I have told the reader in this chapter, even 
to his failings. For when I hesitated, and would have 
glossed over the little characteristics which I did not 
think it would be worth while to tell, he put sharp 
questions, which necessitated a full detail of every- 
thing ; it seemed to me almost that he liad an intuitive 
perception of my son’s character, and merely required 
corroboration. 

“ I have met Josef,” he said, as if in explanation. “ I 
met him, and heard his playing at a club — a club,” he 
repeated, with a scornful toss of his head, as though 
The Bayard Club was not worthy of the name. “ I 
saw the impression his playing made upon the men 
there, and I was interested in him. What does he gain 
at the theatre ? ” 

“ Six pounds a week.” 

“ Too little, too little.” 


9 


130 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ Josef is young,” I said. 

“ That is no reason why he should be underpaid. 
Quite the contrary. He should be playing solos at the 
great concerts. If he can make men weep, he would 
have still greater power over women — over women.” 

“ As for that, sir,” said I, “ he seems to have a sort 
of magic in his bow, and can make women weep or 
smile as he chooses. But I hardly think him yet a 
sufficiently good musician to rank with great players 
like 

“ Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish ! ” he said, impatiently. 
“ What are concerts given for but to realize money ? 
what is the use of money but to gratify our wishes? I 
would undertake to introduce an organ with a monkey 
into the grand opera if it suited iny purpose. There is 
no reason why he should not get sixty pounds a week 
instead of six, and he could, with proper management 
— with proper management.” 

“No doubt,” said I, “ an introduction to persons in 
power would be of great advantage to Josef, but I 
have no means of procuring such introduction.” 

“ I have,” he said, and repeated the words several 
times, looking straight at me all the time. “ He is not 
likely to rise in that miserable theatre, he has nothing 
higher to attain to there. I could get him an engage- 
ment anywhere.” 

“You are fond of music, sir,” I ventured to say. 

“ It is an agreeable sort of noise,” he returned, not 
turning his eyes from my face. “ But I am more inter- 
ested in your son. What kind of entertainment do 
you consider is the best in London for fiddlers ?” 

I mentioned the Saturday matinees of the Orpheonic 
Association. 

“ He shall have an engagement there if he pleases,” 
said Mr. Fleming. Then he took a case, studded with 
jewels, from his pocket, drew a card from it, and, put- 
ting it in my hand, said, “ Tell your son to call upon 
me any time to-morrow, Sunday, and we Avill make 
arrangements. I can make him richer in a few months 
than he would become by fiddling a lifetime at the 
theatre. Call my servants.” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


131 


I called the servants, and they carried their master 
down to his carriage, while I sat down, marvelling 
over this strange occurrence, and completely confounded 
by the prospect of rapid advancement for my son 
suggested to my imagination by Mr. Sebastian Flem- 
ing. 


132 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR, 


CHAPTER XIX. 

COLD LOVE. 

A FEW days after the departure for Asnelles of 
Sebastian Fleming, a registered packet came by post, 
addressed to Stephen Launce. Gerard was alone with 
his uncle when it was delivered. With nervous haste 
the old man opened the packet, and turned over the 
papers it contained ; then, with a sigh, he put them to- 
gether, and in a tone of resignation said, “ It is all I 
expected. Sebastian has returned all my acknowledg- 
ments of pecuniary obligation, and the bills of sale.” 

But though they were all he expected, it seemed to 
Gerard that they were less than he had hoped to 
receive. Yet, what else could he wish more than this 
release, and the assurance of receiving an ample income 
for the rest of his life ? 

In the course of the day, Stephen Launce said that 
he should like to return to London ; he had matters of 
business to transact, and he felt his health so firmly 
re-established as to have no fear of a relapse. He was 
not mistaken in this anticipation. 

When they were once more established in the house 
at Kensington, he showed no symptoms of the mental 
suffering he had before endured. He was no longer 
racked hy alternating paroxysms of hope and fear. 
The excitement had entirely passed, and left him like 
one who had been prostrated by a violent fit — feeble 
and powerless. He was silent, apathetic, and dull. 
He never smiled, except in tender response to the affec- 
tionate care of his wife or Dorothy, and then his smile 
was more pathetic than tears. This condition was 
altogether anomalous, for, supposing that his agitation 
arose from terror, and that he had now nothing more 
to fear, he should have been cheerful and light-hearted. 


FOR LOVE AND 110 A OR. 


133 


His demeanor, on the contrary, made it more reason- 
able to suppose that he had resigned himself to the fact 
that there was no longer anything to hope for. 

The only sign of anxiety he exhibited was when 
Dorothy told him that she liad promised to marry 
Gerard in the first week of August. 

“ The first week in August,” he said in low, faltering 
tones. “ Cannot you be married before that, dear ? ” 

“ It is but seven weeks to wait,” Dorothy replied. 

“ Six weeks and three days to the 1st, I know,” the 
old man said absently ; then, with quickened energy, 
“ Dear, I will speak to Gerard : you must be married 
earlier than that.” 

And he spoke to Gerard soon after, urging him to 
hasten on the marriage, as if he foresaw something to 
prevent it, if it were retarded until the month of 
August. 

Gerard had no desire for delay ; and to please him 
and her uncle, Dorothy consented to be married as 
soon as ever they could find a home to return to after 
the honeymoon. She put herself in the dressmaker’s 
hands at once, and as soon as the important consul- 
tations relative to costume were happily concluded, 
she engaged herself with Gerard in the delightful task 
of finding a suitable house to live in. Gerard would 
have signed an agreement to take for ninety -nine years 
the very first house they looked at. “ AVhat does it 
matter where we live ? ” he asked, “ so that we are 
together : any place will be delightful.” 

“ For ninety-nine years ? ” Dorothy asked, with a 
laugh, and then pointed out defects which would make 
the house intolerable as a home before they had been in 
it a week. She knew what she was about. Gerard 
did not. He thought only of the wife that was to 
make the home a paradise ; she of the servants, who 
might make a very different kind of place of their 
home if it was inconveniently arranged ; and that was 
certainly the more important consideration in choosing 
a house. 

“ Servants won’t accept situations when the dining- 
room is so far removed from the kitchen — servants 


134 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


dislike underground kitchens — servants detest de- 
tached houses.” These were some of the objections 
Dorothy raised 

“ Hang the servants ! ” Gerard muttered at last. 

“ That will not improve matters, Gerard ; for we 
can’t do without them.” 

Dorothy had distinct ideas about the house that 
would be suitable. 

“ It must be light and cheerful, so that it pleases 
you to be in it, and not too far from the West End, so 
that you can get to your club easily, and that your 
friends may not be afraid of coming to see you,” she 
said. 

“ Bright and cheerful it will ever be, darling, while 
you are in it,” Gerard said, pressing her hand ; “ and 
as for clubs and fellows, the less I see of them the 
better pleased I shall be. Whoever heard of a newly 
married man having a club or going out without his 
wife. He never goes out at first, you know.” 

“ That is why he so soon gets tired of his wife, I 
suppose. It seems to me that young people bring a 
great deal of unhappiness upon themselves by at- 
tempting to coerce themselves and each other, into a 
totally new manner of living as soon as they are bound 
togetlier.” 

“ I don’t quite understand,” Gerard said gravely. 

The habits of a man and woman must alter after their 
marriage. Mutual affection must take the place of 
feelings which previously occupied their hearts.” 

“That may be the case with those who are but 
newly acquainted ; but not with us who have always 
known and loved each other, Gerard.” 

Gerard sighed. A sister could not have been more 
reasonable and indulgent ; he would have had her ex- 
acting and wilful. 

He hoped that he should communicate some passion 
to her breast when she grew quite strong again, and 
ceased to suffer from the unnatural strain to which 
her feelings had been put ; but, as the days slipped 
away, Dorothy’s strength and spirits returned without 
any alteration in her bearing towards him. She was 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


135 


always sweet and affectionate, responsive to his ca- 
resses, save when their excess perplexed and frightened 
her ; submissive to his will, except when it was pal- 
pably irrational. She was still a little afraid of him, 
and his passion established, rather than removed, this 
barrier of timidity. He was frequently unreasonable ; 
she never. At these times, her evenness of temper 
and perfect self-control served only to irritate and ex- 
asperate him. He would have been glad to quarrel 
with her, that a reconciliation might give birth to a 
new feeling ; but that was impossible. If he offended, 
Dorothy forgave ; if he made a plausible reason for 
feeling offended, she pleaded guilty at once, and 
promised to be more careful in the future. One night 
he hit upon the brilliant idea of making her jealous. 

They were together at the house of Sebastian Fleming, 
on the occasion of a musical soiree given by him in 
their honor, and that Miss Gordon might hear the 
performance of a young musician about to make his 
dehut at the concerts of the Orpheonic Association. 
Gerard purposely neglected Dorothy for the best part 
of the evening, and devoted his attentions to Mrs. 
Betterton. When he thought he had gone far enough, 
he returned to Dorothy’s side, and was greeted with a 
smile of welcome. She took his arm, and left Mrs. 
Launce, by whom she had been sitting. 

“Well, Dolly, have you been enjoying the music?” 
he asked, in the most off-hand fashion he could assume. 

“ Very much, dear; have you ?” 

“ To tell the truth, I have not been listening to the 
music much. I have been chatting with Mrs. Better- 
ton.” 

“ So long as you have been agreeably occupied, that 
is everything.” 

“ You don’t mind, dear,” said he, in a tone of apology. 

“ Mind, Gerard ! Why should I ? You have told me 
that she is a good and ekimable woman, so I have no 
reason to regret that you have been in her society. 
Besides, you owe her your attention as some sort of 
reparation for the injustice you did her the first time 
you saw her.” 


136 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“But I ought not to have neglected you so long, 
Dolly.” 

“ Perhaps it would he as fair to say that I ought not 
to have let you neglect me, dear. But, to tell the truth, 
I have been so interested in the music, that I forgot 
all about you, Gerard.” 

Here was an end to his hopes of exciting her jeal- 
ousy. 

“Won’t you he jealous when we are married, if I sit 
chatting for ever so long with a pretty woman ? ” 

“ I hope not. It will be very stupid if I am, know- 
ing how much you love me. What difference will it 
make whether a woman is pretty or ugly if you talk 
with her for the pleasure of hearing what she says? 
You would not like me to avoid your friends’ conver- 
sation simply because they happened to have good 
looks, would you, Gerard ? ” 

“ Oh, I dare say you are quite right, logically, hut still 

“ Hush, dear ! some one is at the piano.” 

Gerard subsided into silence with a sigh. 

At that moment Sebastian Fleming was at the door 
with Josef Benedick, who had just arrived. 

“ My dear young gentleman,” said Fleming, lowering 
his shrill voice to a whistling whisper, “ I know it is 
the custom at theatres when a royal personage is pres- 
ent for the actor to play to him. Now I have given 
this entertainment to a young lady, and I should like 
you to perform that kind of piece which you judge 
will he most pleasing to her — to play to her, in point 
of fact ; and this favor will he less difficult to comply 
with when you know that the young lady is possessed 
of great beauty and sensibility — great beauty and sen- 
sibility.” 

“ I will do my best,” Josef said, laughing. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Benedick — thank you.” 

“ Will you point out the young lady ? ” 

“ She stands to the left of me, beside a man with a 
sombre face. Do you see — do you see ? ” 

“I see a beautiful girl, and only one. Heavens, 
what a face ! ” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


137 


“ Delicate and white, young and thin.” 

“ She is perfect — the one I see.” 

“ Divine if you like, but human also. Flesh and blood 
like you — flesh and blood — flesh and blood,” the old 
man whispered eagerly, watching the expression of 
admiration playing over the beautiful sensuous face of 
the young musician.. 

“ I will do my best,” Josef said softly. 

“ Make her smile — make her weep, and your honor- 
arium shall be doubled. Come, the man has ceased to 
jingle the piano. I will lead you there myself. Come ! ” 


138 


FOB LOVF AND UOA OU. 


CHAPTER XX. 

ONLY A FIDDLER. 

The company made way for Sebastian Fleming as 
he crossed the room with Josef Benedick. He went a 
little from the direct line, in order to pass near Dor- 
othy. The contrast between him and Josef struck 
every one and drew attention — he being so old and hid- 
eous, Josef so young and beautiful. 

Hi was, doubtless, aware of the fact, and pausing 
directly in front of Gerard and Dorothy, but without 
seeming to notice them, he said — 

“ Change sides with me, young gentleman. I am 
feeble and very old ; you are strong and youthful.” 

Josef obeyed, but his eyes were entranced by Dorothy’s 
face, and lingered upon it as he awkwardly made the 
necessary change of position. 

“ Confound his impudence ! ” Gerard muttered. 
“ What does the fiddler mean by staring at you like 
that?” 

‘‘Did he stare? I didn’t notice,” Dorothy said, her 
hand trembling a little. 

She seemed also enthralled, and, unconscious of Ger« 
ard’s discontent, followed Josef with her eyes as he 
walked to the piano. 

“ He is going to play, Gerard,” she said ; “ let us get 
a little nearer.” 

Gerard led her nearer, but took the pains to place her 
on the opposite side to that she had occupied. 

Josef took his violin from the case, and turned his eyes 
to where Dorothy had stood. Tuning his instrument, 
he seemed to be looking amongst the visitors for her. 
His eyes wandered over the faces turned towards him 
until they found her ; then they rested. It was obvi- 
ous he intended to play to her, for he faced her, and not 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 1^9 

the main body of visitors. Those who stood between 
her and the piano fell back, taking Josefs distinction 
as a compliment pre-arranged by Sebastian Fleming for 
her to whom he had given the soiree. Gerard, falling 
into the same belief, was appeased. Dorotliy saw 
nothing but the wonderful face of the musician; all 
other faces were indistinguishable and vague, like the 
accessories of a dream. 

Josef saw her from head to foot, clad in her simple 
dress of pale blush satin — a young queen, meeting his 
gaze unabashed — a peri revealing a new heaven to his 
soul. He bowed to her, and lifting his violin, paused for 
a moment as if undecided what to play, then drew the 
bow across the strings. 

For the first time in his life Josef was nervous. It 
seemed impossible to him that he should play anything 
good enough for her to listen to. He could remember 
nothing ; and when he produced the first note, he had 
no idea of what was to follow. Should he lay down his 
instrument, find a suitable score, and play from the 
notes, or should he think of the beautiful girl before him, 
and let his thoughts find expression in a rhapsody such 
as in dreamy moments he loved to indulge in ? The 
latter course was more in harmony with his present 
mood. The prolonged note drawn from his violin 
sounded in his ear like a wondering murmur of admi- 
ration — a musical form of the feeling in his heart when 
he first saw Dorothy. IJnconsciously he fell into a 
reverie, and, closing his eyes, went over again in his 
mind the mingled sensations of the past brief moments 
— dwelling upon them, expanding them with a thou- 
sand poetical fancies. And as he thought, he played. 
His instrument spoke. One could not listen and fail to 
[Understand the meaning of the inspired sounds. He 
approached with awe and wonder, he lingered with 
mingled fear and audacity, he lost her for a time and 
wandered with despondent heart-sinking, with tremu- 
lous fears to find her, and as a burst of harmony sud- 
denly succeeded the soft vibretto, one saw that the lost 
was found ; and then, with all the power of the strings, 
he glorified the beauty revealed to him by the opening 


140 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


in the throng in majestic strains that sent a thrill 
through the veins of those who heard. Abruptly, al- 
most discordantly, the rhapsody ended, as though the 
player had been struck down by the ecstasy of his 
overwrought passion. 

For a moment after he ceased to play there was si- 
lence, sympathy and astonishment seemed to overcome 
his audience. 

Sebastian Fleming alone was unmoved. 

“ Very good — brava ! — a beautiful young man ! ” he 
said, breaking the silence with his shrill, reedy voice. 
The descent from the sublime to the ridiculous broke 
the spell. A quick murmur of approbation was fol- 
lowed by a sound of applause. 

The throng moved, closed in, shut off Dorothy from 
the sight of Josef Benedick, and the young musician 
seated himself, white, and seemingly exhausted by his 
l^erformance. But the applause continued, and there 
were cries of “ Bis.” In the midst, Sebastian Fleming 
came to the piano, leading Dorothy. 

The blood returned in a flood to the face of Josef 
Benedick, and he rose to his feet. 

Had it been understood that she was the theme of 
his rhapsody, and was she there to reproach him for 
his temerity ? That was the question he put to himself, 
and which drove the color from his face as quickly 
as it had come. 

“ Mr. Josef Benedick,” said Sebastian Fleming, 
“ this young lady. Miss Gordon, has expressed a desire 
to be introduced to you — to you, to you.” 

Josef bowed, his eyes and Dorothy’s mingling as 
they met. She had said she should like to thank the 
musician and Sebastian Fleming, catching her words, 
had brought her to him. But words failed her ; she could 
not form the sentence she wished to speak. Her lips 
trembled for a moment, and then she said, simply — 

“ I thank you ! ” 

At that moment Harold Belouse came up. 

“ My dear Benedick,” he said, “ you have surpassed 
yourself. You are quite too intense. Every one en- 
6 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


141 


treats that you will repeat that utterly delicious mor- 
ceau.” 

“ Yes, yes, play again, young gentleman — play it 
again, play it again,” said Sebastian Fleming. 

“ I am sorry to refuse,” Josef said, smiling. “ I 
don’t know what I played.” 

“ Tell me the name of the piece, and I will find it for 
you.” 

“ It has not even a name — unless I may call it a 
Hymn to Beauty,” Josef answered, turning to Dorothy. 
“ It was an impromptu ; but I will play something else 
if you wish it.” 

He looked over his music, selected a piece and set 
it upon the stand. Dorothy seated herself quite close, 
and sat waiting, her hands clasped in her lap, her beau- 
tiful eyes dwelling upon Josef, a new and strange 
delight throbbing in her bosom. 

Sebastian Fleming took a seat, whence, resting his 
sharp bony chin upon the crutch of his stick, he could 
see both Dorothy and Josef. 

Josef had chosen a piece called “ Life,” by Zuki- 
osko, the peasant musician. It was in three parts. 
The first commenced with a rondo — a quaint Hun- 
garian air, which is still sung by children in the vil- 
lages around Pesth, where the composer lived ; the air 
was repeated in snatches amongst the laughter and 
mirth of children. One could fancy one heard their 
voices mingling with the song of birds, and the mur- 
mur of rivulets. It was exhilarating to listen to the 
merry sounds. As Josef paused at the conclusion, 
Dorothy instinctively put her hand up to her hair. She 
had been romping in imagination with the little ones. 
She laughed at the delusion, and blushed, meeting 
Josef’s eyes. 

The second part was nothing but a tender love- song, 
ruffled by capricious movements mounting to a pas- 
sionate strain, and then subsiding to a calm even flow 
of harmony. Dorothy’s heart beat faster as she lis- 
tened, and for some reason which she herself could not 
explain, she dropped her eyes when Josef ceased to 
play and looked towards her. 


142 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


The third part was a chorale — an even-song of praise 
and gratitude — sacred and slow, full of pathetic tender- 
ness, like a last adieu, and yet tinged with pleasant 
memories. It was easy to detect traces of the two pre- 
ceding parts — faint echoes of the love- song and the 
children’s round ; and with the first quaint air fading 
away to the softest sigh, the piece ended. 

Sebastian Fleming was satisfied with Josefs play- 
ing ; Dorothy had smiled and wept to his music. 

Dorothy wished to speak to Josef, to thank 
him for the exquisite pleasure he had given her. Why 
should she do so ? She had been introduced to him, 
and he was quite close to her. She rose, and said with 
trepidation — 

“ I want to tell you, Mr. Benedick, how much your 
playing has delighted me.” 

“ It has delighted me to play to you,” Josef answered. 
“ I think I should he a better musician if I had always 
such an incentive to play well.” 

“ You have always your love of music to incite you.” 

“ Yes, but there is a greater prize than that to be won.” 

Josef had wooed so many sweethearts that he was 
never at a loss for a compliment. Dorothy did not 
reply. She must have felt that the ground she trod 
was treacherous. She glanced at the music, and said — 

“ That which you have just played is your composi- 
tion, is it not ? ” 

“ No. It is by a Hungarian peasant, and is called 
‘ Life ; ’ did you understand it ? ” 

“Yes. It was a beautiful idyl of childhood, and 
maturity, and age. It is sad to think that the happiest 
life ends with a mournful recollection of the past.” 

“ What made you think I was the composer ? ” Josef 
asked, turning from the grave subject. For it was only 
when wrought by musical enthusiasm that he cared to 
think seriously. 

“ It is so beautiful,” Dorothy said simply, not intend- 
ing any compliment. 

Josef laughed lightly ; then said he — 

“ My father and I play it as a duet. He is a pianist.” 

u Oh, if I—” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR, 


143 


Dorothy checked herself. 

“ Do you play ? ” 

“ Yes ; but not well enough to accompany you.” 

“ That is only a matter of opinion, perhaps. I should 
be more reluctant to play my part in a duet with you 
than you yours.” 

“ Why ?” she cried, opening her eyes wide. 

J osef met her gaze for a moment in silence ; then he 
said — 

“Admiration makes us diffident.” It would seem 
that he was an exception to this rule from what he 
said, and the way in which he looked. “ I dared not 
look at you while I was playing,” he continued, 

Dorothy hardly knew what to think. It was impos- 
sible to believe that a great musician, such as Josef 
appeared to be, could descend to the gallantry of or- 
dinary men. Besides, to make love to her, or to pretend 
to make love to her, on such a short acquaintance would 
be unbecoming of a gentleman. No ; it was the privilege 
of an artist to say freely things which ordinary people 
avoided, and to look differently to others. Yet there 
was something audaT^ious in the gaze of Josef which 
forced her to drop her eyes in embarrassment. Was 
she displeased to suspect him of impudence ? I think 
not. More women have been won by impudence than 
by respectful diffidence. 

“ I shall be delighted to arrange this violin score for 
a pianoforte solo if you will accept it,” Josef said. 

“ Oh, it is what I wished, but dared not ask.” 

“ Will you tell me where I may send it ? ” 

Josef piffled out a ragged note- book, well-nigh filled 
with the addresses of his sweethearts, and a stump of 
lead pencil. 

“ I am living with Mr. Stephen Launce, Grandison 
House, Kensington.” 

“Miss Gordon, Grandison House,” Josef said, com- 
mencing a new page, and writing as he spoke. “ Ken- 
nington, did you say ? ” 

“ Kensington,” Dorothy said, with a feeling of dis- 
comfort, for Gerard had come to her side, and was listen- 
ing with bent brows. 


144 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ Is there any other question you wish answered?” 
Gerard asked, with forced coldness. 

“None,” Josef said, becoming conscious that he had 
overstepped the bounds prescribed by the etiquette of 
genteel society. 

“ Will you take my arm, Dorothy?” Gerard said. 

She put her hand upon his arm, wondering why he 
looked so angry, and, bowing to Josef, walked away 
with Gerard. 

Now poor Gerard had fallen into his own trap. He 
had failed entirely to excite Dorothy’s jealousy, but had 
himself become jealous themomentthat Josef Benedick 
fixed his eyes upon her. He was unreasonable, as all 
jealous people must be. When Josef singled out Dor- 
othy to play to, he, with difficulty, accepted the dis- 
tinction as the intended compliment of Sebastian Flem- 
ing ; and when, at the conclusion, she expressed her 
desire to thank Josef, he would have explained to her 
the reason why it was impracticable, but that Sebastian 
Fleming forestalled his plan. He watched Dorothy 
from a distance, and noticing every glance that passed 
between Tier and the young musician, put upon his 
own jealous construction. He determined not to inter- 
fere. 

“ She does not know what she is doing, poor child,” 
he said to himself. “ She is dazzled by his beauty and 
intoxicated by his music ; presently he will go, and 
they will never meet again.” 

But when Josef pulled out his note-book, and began 
to write, he thought it time to interfere. 

“ What on earth have you been doing, Dolly ? ” he 
asked impatiently, as he led her away. 

“ Giving Mr. Benedick my address.” 

“ And why ? ” 

“ Because he asked for it.” 

“ Impertinent puppy ! ” 

“ Gerard ! ” 

“ What right had he to speak to you ? ” 

“ I spoke to him. He was compelled to answer.” 

“ But what did he want your address for ? ” 

“ To send me a piece of music.” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


145 


Gerard looked more black than ever at this news. 

“ Are you angry with me ? ” Dorothy asked. 

“ Oh no, not with you, dear ” (his looks belied his 
words). “But I am incensed against this conceited, 
impudent, fiddling fellow, and he shall know it. It is 
a piece of unwarrantable impudence to offer you a gift. 
Of course you will not accept it.” 

“ Of course I shall,” Dorothy said, growing pale, but 
speaking with unwonted firmness. 

“ Dolly dear, don’t you know that in society there 
are certain rules of propriety, of etiquette, which pre- 
clude, even amongst equals, the degree of familiarity 
which you have permitted to this young man?” 

“ It is because we are not equal that I may accept 
kindness from him as an honor. I am nobody. He is 
a great musician.” 

“ A great musician ! ” said Gerard, with a short, loud 
laugh. “ He lives with his father in a garret in Black- 
friars, Belouse tells me ; and plays in the orchestra of 
a second-rate theatre, and he is paid to play here.” 

“ Gerard dear,” said Dorothy, after a pause, in which 
she had been silent to avoid losing her temper, “ we 
are neither quite calm just now. I will think this 
over when I get home, and if I find I have done wrong, 
I will avoid meeting Mr. Benedick, and be more care- 
ful in future not to be led away by enthusiasm.” 

Gerard was silent ; he felt that he had spoken un- 
wisely, and foresaw that he should have to eat his 
words on the morrow. 

Meanwhile Sebastian had come to Josef Benedick’s 
side. 

“ You played well — you played well. The fee shall 
be doubled.” 

“That’s nothing,” Josef replied. “I would play 
every night in the week for nothing, to be listened to 
by Miss Gordon.” 

“ She is beautiful, very beautiful, and her sensibility 
is extreme. Sweet and gentle too — ^yielding and sweet.” 

“ That is more than can be said for the gentleman 
whose arm she has taken. He looks as if he could eat 
her.” 


10 


146 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ All, ah, yes ; that is her step-brother. I dare say 
he is a little angry with her — angry with her.” 

«Why?” 

“ Because she spoke to you — you — you.” 

“ What have I done that she should not speak to 
me?” Josef asked, in warm indignation. 

“Nothing, nothing. Only the inequality in position 
forbids familiarity. Caste, caste, young gentleman — 
money, money ! Miss Gordon is entitled to a fortune 
of twenty thousand pounds. That is why she should 
hold herself above you. But she is thoughtless and 
young ; doubtless your playing has infatuated her ; 
perhaps your personal beauty also had something to 
do with her forgetfulness. I warrant her step-brother, 
Mr. Launce, will not permit her to speak again with 
you. You have spoken to her once ; you are not likely 
to have the chance again.” 

Josefs blood tingled in his veins with the sense of 
injustice. 

“ I will speak to her again,” he said. 

“ To what end, young gentleman ? ” asked Sebas- 
tian Fleming, lowering his voice to a hissing whisper. 
“ To what end ? She is an heiress. What are you ? ” 

Josef paused a moment to realize his position, and 
then, dropping his head, answered the question — 

“ Only a fiddler ! ” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


147 


CHAPTER XXI. 
josef’s dejection. 

I WAITED anxiously for my boy’s return from Mr. 
Fleming’s. Shortly after midnight I heard him open 
the door below, and whipping off the serviette with 
which I had covered the supper-table, I threw open 
the door, and then held a light over the balusters. I 
was astonished by his silence and the slowness of his 
steps. At first I doubted if it was he who had re- 
turned. For usually he ran up the stairs two at a 
time, singing or whistling as he came. 

“ Is that you, Jo ? ” 

“ Yes, father,” he answered, but with nothing of his 
ordinary cheerfulness. 

“ Nothing unpleasant has happened?” 

“ No,” he said, kissing my cheek, as he came to the 
top of the staircase. It is the custom in Hungary for 
young men to embrace their fathers, and Josef, despite 
his English birth and associations, had not discon- 
tinued this habit of his boyhood. And I do not see 
why Englishmen, loving their fathers equally with 
their mothers, should be ashamed to give this testi- 
mony of affection to one parent which they do not 
blush to give to the other. 

“ I am a little tired with the excitement, perhaps,” 
he continued, seeing the anxiety which I felt on his 
account. 

“ Your supper will do you good. Come, sit down. 
Give me your violin — that’s it.” I had prepared quite 
a fete supper to celebrate the wonderful good fortune 
which had befallen him. There was a cold chick, 
some slices of ham, a piece of pickled salmon and let- 
tuce, to say nothing of a jug of ale and a bottle of 
Castle — a claret that had cost me fourteenpence. I 


148 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


intended this repast as a surprise for him, but he sat 
down without a word, and cut himself a slice of bread, 
without seeming to notice that there was anything ex- 
travagant or out of the way in my preparation. ^ 

“ I hope you are hungry, Jo,” 1 said. 

“ Not very, father. No fowl, thank you. A little 
lettuce and bread, and a glass of ale I shall like better 
than anything.” 

Josefs appetite was naturally so hearty, that I had 
expected he Avould leave little beyond the fowl-bones 
and an empty bottle, and it disappointed me to think 
I had gone to so much expense for nothing ; but I was 
too much alarmed to remonstrate with him. What 
misfortune had happened ? Had Mr. Fleming declined 
to pay the thirty guineas he had promised for my 
boy’s services ? It had seemed to me too good to be 
true. But I dared not question him for dread of hav- 
ing my fears confirmed. 

“ The lettuce is good,” I said. “ Mrs. Grey bought 
them in the New Cut, four for threepence. It is some- 
thing to have a woman who will go to market for you. 
I can never get them for less than a penny each, 
though I go away from the shop half a dozen times.” 

Josef frowned slightly, as if it displeased him to 
hear of my economical efforts.” 

“ I have good news for you, Josef,” I continued, 
after waiting in vain for him to break the silence. 
“ Miss Sarah spoke to me from her window at ten 
o’clock, and said she had finished the last stitch of her 
work, and should be quite free to accept your invita- 
tion for to-morrow. Where are you going, my boy ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I think I promised to take her to 
Greenwich — to drink tea and eat shrimps,” he said, in 
a tone of disgust. 

“ Why not, Jo?” said I ; “it is not expensive, and 
there is not one of your sweethearts to compare with 
Sarah. She’s kind to her mother, and she is indus- 
trious. AVhy, after her work for the shop was done 
to-night, I peeped through the window, and saw her 
with her curls in paper for to-morrow, sweeping up the 
room, and tidymg the place in order that her mother 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


149 


might have everything neat and comfortable in her 
absence. You couldn’t wish to have a better wife 
than she would be, and I should be glad to see you 
married to her. Mrs. Grey told me that the girl has 
more than twelve pounds saved, and I don’t see why 
we should not all live together in the same house 
when you are married. It will be a great saving of 
expense ; and a girl who can work and save as she 
does must make her husband happy. No affectation 
or nonsense about her ; no fine airs ; no idle habits of 
reading when she ought to be working.” 

“ There would be no need to keep a servant with 
such a wife as that, would there ? ” 

Josef spoke in a tone of voice that was almost sar- 
castic, but it did not strike me at the moment. 

“ To be sure you wouldn’t,” said I. “ She is not like 
most of the girls you take out and about, Jo ; girls who 
spend all their money in a showy dress or bonnet, and 
dare not ask you to step into their houses, because 
their parents are not respectable or their houses untidy 
and disagreeable. Sarah’s mother is a little lady at 
all times, and their rooms are never unfit to walk into. 
And why is that? — because Sarah works hard and 
loves to work. And she won’t alter. Most of these 
Lotties, and Lizzies, and Jinnies, and Louies, expect 
to leave off work when they marry, and do nothing 
but lounge about on sofas, reading police news, and 
song-books after. Not so with Sarah ; she wouldn’t be 
happy idle, and she would do her best to save, and make 
your house nice because she loves you with all her 
heart. She pretends that it’s all a joke, but in her 
heart I know she hopes that you will one day think 
seriously, and marry her.” 

“ Poor Sarah ! ” said Josef, sighing. “ You have not 
said anything to lead her to suppose I shall marry her, 
have you ? ” 

“ No, Jo.” 

“Then do not, father, for her sake.” He pushed 
back his chair from the table, and, nursing his knees, 
said, “ I shall never marry.” 

I said nothing for some time ; then, approaching 


150 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


the subject which was on iny mind all the while I was 
thinking on the less important topic, I asked — 

“ Mr. Fleming paid you to-night, Jo ; there was no 
mistake, was there?” 

“ No,” he said. “ Mr. Fleming was so satisfied that 
he doubled my fee.” 

He took an envelope from his pocket, and put it in 
my hand. I opened it with trembling fingers, and took 
out a check for sixty guineas signed by Sebastian 
Fleming. 

“ Sixty guineas ! ” I exclaimed ! “ why, this is in- 
credible. London and Westminster Bank ; why, that is 
almost as safe as the Bank of England itself. I will 
change it the very first thing to-morrow morning, for 
fear of accidents. Sixty guineas ! ” 

“ What is sixty guineas ? ” said Josef, impatiently — 
“ nothing.” 

“Nothing! ” I gasped. “ If you don’t waste it Jo, 
it would keep you for ever so long in case of illness.” 

“ Will it give me education and refined tastes ? will 
it give me even the luxuries of life ? ” 

“Luxuries, refined tastes, education! these things 
are well enough for gentlefolks with nothing to do, 
but would be worse than worthless to you, my poor 
boy, for they would only make you dissatisfied with 
your lot in life.” 

“True,” said Josef, bitterly, “ it is my lot to live in 
a garret, to have vulgar pleasures and mean satisfac- 
tions ; to make a trade of art ; to get drunk with my 
ragged companions, and fool away my time with silly 
girls. But for all that is delicate and sweet, generous, 
noble, and high, I may only yearn, and never hope to 
obtain. It is an impertinence for me to speak to one 
with purer, nobler thoughts than mine. I am only a 
fiddler.” 

I did not know the immediate cause of Josefs discon- 
tent, or to whom he referred as having nobler thoughts 
than his. I considered merely that, dazzled by the 
riches he had seen at the house of the millionaire, he 
had conceived an extravagant idea of his own inferior 
position. I said what I could to comfort him, and 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


151 


then withdrew to my bedroom, feeling that argument 
would be useless while his mind was excited, and that 
he would recover his usual temper more quickly if 
left to his own reflections. 

When I had put out my light, I peeped through the 
half-open door to see what Josef was doing. He had 
thrown up the window, and was sitting in the embra- 
sure, facing the open sky. The wind was blowing hack 
the hair from his beautiful white forehead. I noticed, 
also, that it was causing the candle to gutter fright- 
fully. That seemed to me such a waste that I was 
compelled to enter the room and remove it from the 
current of air. Josef took no notice of me ; I came and 
went unseen. I could not fall asleep for thinking of 
my poor Josef’s dejection, but it was a great consola- 
tion to me to think of the check he had received, and 
to know it was drawn upon such a safe bank. I dare 
say I had been in bed best part of two hours, when I 
heard my boy playing. It was the softest, saddest 
music, full of plaintive regret, like the notes of an 
Hd^olian harp. 


152 


FOB LOVE AND HONOB. 


CIIxVPTER XXII. 

FAILURE. 

When I rose the next morning, I found Josef asleep 
on his bed, still in his evening dress, just as he had 
thrown himself down. I paused to look at him. I think 
he must have been dreaming of some pleasant thing, for 
there was the most tender expression on his beautiful 
face. “ He will be all right when he wakes up,” I said 
to myself. I turned to the candlestick, to judge how 
long he had sat up ; the candle had burnt out, and 
ruined the save-all. However, it was no time for use- 
less regrets. I hastened off to the bank, and received 
sixty-three sovereigns for the check, without having 
a single question asked. What a sum for an evening’s 
performance ! 

Josef was up when I returned. I put the money 
before him, for he still looked dejected, and made no 
pretence of whistling or singing. 

“ Take care of it, father,” said he. “ I should only 
throw it away — perhaps get drunk with it.” 

“ Good, my boy ; it is a low, bad habit,” I said. 

At that moment our attention was attracted by a 
coughing outside ; it was a signal from Mrs. Grey’s 
rooms, and, looking from our window, we perceived 
Sarah all ready to start. She had a new white feather 
in her bonnet and liglit kid gloves. She looked really 
quite aristocratic, and I was delighted with her appear- 
ance, hoping that Josef would recover his customary 
content, and not indulge in Utopian dreams of educa- 
tion and culture, when, without them, he could obtain 
a wife who was not only domesticated and industrious, 
but also stylish. It was with a return to his old man- 
ner that he nodded to her, and went through some 
pantomimic expression of rapture at her appearance. 


FOE LOVE AND HO NOE. 


153 


It was always with this mock sentiment that he treated 
the good girl, and happily prevented her from thinking 
so seriously of a future union with him as I did. He 
came from his room soon after, having changed his 
evening suit for a morning dress. 

“Now for Greenwich, shrimps, and tea,” he said, in 
parting. 

In the afternoon I received a second visit from Mr. 
Fleming. I told him that my boy had gone to Green- 
wich, and would not return home until late, as he pur- 
posed going directly from Greenwich to the theatre. 
The strange old gentleman asked me numberless ques- 
tions, which compelled me, against my inclination, to 
reveal the morbid state of mind in which Josef had re- 
turned from the soiree. It seemed impossible to conceal 
anything. As if he suspected what had happened, Mr. 
Fleming put questions which could not be answered 
without disclosing that which I would fain have left 
untold. I apologized for the discontent of my son, and 
excused him to the best of my ability, assuring Mr. 
Fleming that it did not arise from disappointment 
with regard to his generosity. 

“ Then what did it arise from ? ” he asked sharply, 
and I was obliged to tell him what I thought — that 
some delicate pleasure of the night before had made our 
simple life repugnant to him. 

He asked what that life was, and exacted so many 
facts from me that I believe he knew all the particu- 
lars Josefs character, disposition, and mode of living 
before he ceased his interrogations, and fully as well as 
I did myself. In conclusion, he said — 

“ Josef is quite right, and you are quite w*rong. The 
young man has indulged in vulgar pleasures because 
his nature demanded enjoyment, and these were the 
only kind he could obtain. A passionate temperament 
cannot be restricted within the sober limits of ordinary 
existence ; reaction follows every excess ; sensuous 
pleasure is the natural form of relaxation for those 
who are subjected to a great intellectual strain. But 
a real artist — such as Josef is — cannot content himself 
for long with the baser sorts of enjoyment ; in time 


154 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


his taste asserts itself ; he revolts against vulgarity, 
and seeks higher satisfaction of culture ; he must have 
the companionship of people with delicate and refined 
minds ; he must free himself from sordid cares ; he 
must surround himself with purity and beauty. Other- 
wise his career is hopeless, and the artist ends his life 
as a drunkard and debauchee — ends his short life as a 
drunkard and debauchee — drunkard and debauchee ! ” 

I confess I was fairly frightened by these words, 
and the pathetic confidence with which they were 
spoken. 1 never thought of doubting the accuracy of 
his conclusion. I scarcely understood his argument. 
I only grasped the general idea. His concluding words 
dwelt in my mind, and were impressed by their repe- 
tition. I thought of my poor boy becoming a sot and 
dying in depravity before the work of his life was 
accomplished, and I cried, clasping my hands — 

“ Great heavens ! AVhat can I do ? How can I give 
him culture, and delicate minds, and refinement, and 
purity and beauty, and all that ? I have but a hundred 
and fifty pounds in the world ; and he no more than 
the sixty-three pounds you gave him last night ; and 
goodness only knows how long that will last, if he 
must have debauchery and things.” 

Mr. Fleming looked at me with his peculiar eyes for 
a moment or two without speaking, and then said — 

“We must do all we can; I by my pecuniary in- 
fluence, you by your moral influence. Send him to me 
to-morrow morning. He may hear of something to his 
advantage, as they say in the papers — something to 
his advantage.” 

I thanked him a dozen times, saying to myself how 
careful we ought to be in forming hasty judgments of 
one’s fellow-creatures, since here was a man whose 
appearance excited the most unfavorable ideas, using 
his powerful influence on behalf of a young man com- 
paratively a stranger to him. 

]My task at the commencement seemed light indeed. 
It required no moral pressure to induce Josef to visit 
Mr. Fleming the following morning. He returned in 
a state of elation after an absence of several hours. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


155 


“Father ! ” he cried, bursting into the room where I 
was peeling potatoes, “ my fortune is made. I am to 
play on Saturday at the Orpheonic Matinee, in the 
place of Joachim, Avho is indisposed.” 

“ My boy ! ” I exclaimed. 

“Mr. Fleming took me to the private residence of 
Signor Lugini, the conductor. Everything seemed to 
be already arranged between them, and I was only 
asked to accept the engagement and name my terms.” 

“ And what terms have you made, Josef?” 

“ I asked twenty guineas for each performance. I 
did not ask more, though Mr. Fleming hinted to me 
not to undervalue myself. I believe if I had asked 
twice as much it would have been given me. Lugini 
made no hesitation whatever. I am to play at every 
concert during the season.” 

I sincerely regretted that my son had not demanded 
more, but there was no help for it now. Enormous as 
the price was for a single performance, it seemed small 
when I thought of the higher sum he might have had. 
It is thus that we can discover cause for discontent, 
even when we have more than ever we dared to hope 
for. 

AVhen I thought of Josef’s undertaking, I felt 
nervous, and not altogether sure my jpartiality for him 
had not blinded me to his defects as a musician. He 
had put his name down upon the programme for two 
solos, one by Spohr, the other by Tartini, and he was 
to be judged by a critical audience. I would have had 
him play a selection of the Hungarian tunes, which 
never failed to please, and which called for less exec- 
utive skill than the works he had chosen. 

In due course Josefs name appeared in advertise- 
ments upon the Avails and in the neAvspapers ; and I 
suffered as much agitation between my joy, my hope, 
and my fear, as if I myself were to play. Indeed I 
was far more anxious than Josef, Avho instead of prac- 
tising the pieces he was to play, occupied himself in 
arranging duets of violin and piano, as pianoforte 
solos. I "begged him to let me arrange the piece, Avhich 
was quite within the scope of my ability, but he refused, 


156 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


and spent a needless amount of time in elaborating the 
thing, and giving it finish. He offered no explanation 
of this unwise employment, and I feared to ask him 
about it. When it was finished he sent it by post to 
Miss Gordon, Grandison House, Kensington. I caught 
sight of the address in passing behind him. 

On Saturday, after tenderly embracing my son at 
the professional entrance to St. James’s Hall, I made 
my way into the stalls, for which I had a free ticket. 
Very few people had arrived, for it was early ; but 
prominent in the half-crown seats were Mrs. Grey and 
Sarah, and very well they looked, dressed in their best. 
Sarah waved her handkerchief to me, and looked very 
happy; poor soul, she did not know how Josefs heart 
was alienated from her ; but I think it would have 
made no difference in her feeling towards him if she 
had. She would still have gone to witness his triumph, 
and give her best meed of applause. I looked about 
in the fauteuilles for Mr. Fleming, not doubting he 
would be present ; but the concert had begun before 
he entered. Josef’s name was in the middle of the 
first and second parts. 

With Mr. Fleming came Mr. Gerard Launce and 
Miss Gordon ; the last seats in the hall were reserved 
for them. 

Miss Gordon created quite a sensation when she en- 
tered; partly because of her natural beauty, which 
seemed to me greater and more perfect than in the 
evening when I first saw her and partly because of 
her personal adornment. She wore a simple dress of 
purple velvet fitting close to her exquisite figure ; but 
upon this lay a necklet of diamonds that flashed a 
thousand rays of vivid colors as she moved. The 
magnificence of the gems was enhanced by the sim- 
plicity of the dress. Sarah and her mother thought 
she was a princess, and well they might, for nothing 
could be more gracious and noble than her face and 
bearing; nothing more regal than the purple velvet 
and flashing diamonds. 

I learnt afterwards that the necklet had been given 
to her that very day by Mr. Fleming. “ I intended 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


157 


this for my wife,” he said, giving her the box. “You 
will console me for my disappointment by accepting 
and Avearing it.” 

The thought flashed upon my mind at once that 
Josef might have met Miss Gordon at Sebastian Flem- 
ing’s soiree, and conceived some wildly ambitious 
idea of making her his wife. The work he had given 
his precious moments to, he had sent to her. That 
fact supported my suspicion, and I absolutely trembled 
as I thought of the audacious project, and the diffi- 
culties in which it must involve him. 

I cannot describe the emotion I felt when at length 
Josef came up the steps and made his way to the front, 
while the violinists tapped the back of their violins, 
and the audience greeted the young debutant with en- 
couraging applause. He came briskly forward, carry- 
ing his instrument under his arm, and the murmur of 
applause grcAV noticeably louder as his youth and 
beauty Avere more fully seen. He looked pale and 
eager. His eyes Avandered quickly over the fauteuilles 
until they rested upon Miss Gordon ; then they seemed 
to catch the rays from her diamonds. His cheek 
flushed. He boAved directly to her, and then turned 
hurriedly to the right and left. I do not think he saw 
me ; I am sure he did not recognize his friends in the half- 
croAvn seats. It Avas by a slip of memory rather than 
from intentional neglect that he did not nod to them ; 
for he Avas never too proud to acknoAvledge the hum- 
blest friend, and if he had given them a thought he 
Avould have made it plain hoAV pleased they would 
be to get a glance from him. 

He got through the first piece fairly well upon the 
whole ; I had heard him play the same thing better. 
He Avas clearly ill at ease, and never once took his eyes 
from the score. I must OAvn I Avas sadly disappointed ; 
I had expected him to play Avithout reading, and to 
play better. When he concluded, he made a hurried 
boAV to the left and right — never looking at Miss Gor- 
don, and escaped, conscious of his failure. The ap- 
plause, despite all I could do, was so feeble and partial 
that it would have been ridiculous to attempt an en- 


158 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


core. Yet I knew that, with more faith in himself, 
and an abandonment to the subject of his playing, 
he could have triumphed ; and this made me deeply 
regret the want of applause. 

I left my stall and went round to the orchestra en- 
trance, hoping Josef would come out, that I might 
encourage him ; but he had left the orchestra, and I 
think purposely avoided meeting me. I went back to 
my stall, and waited with dread for Josefs turn to 
come. The second piece was more difficult than the 
first, and, disheartened with the previous failure, he 
would be still more nervous in playing. When he 
came again to the front he bowed to the right and left, 
but clearly avoided looking where INIiss Gordon sat. 
The accompanist took his place at the piano, and, to 
my sorrow, Josef, after a momenf s hesitation, set up 
the score to read from. Then followed an unmistaka- 
ble manifestation of disapproval from the critical part 
of the audience — men who, strong themselves in their 
own judgment, have no pity for the weak. Josef heard, 
and, for the first time, looked down at Miss Gordon, 
as if for guidance. 1 could see the bow quivering 
in his hand. It seemed as if there was some com- 
munication of ideas between them, for the next moment 
he turned to the pianist with a word and a shake of 
the head, threw aside the musical score, and began the 
sonata, “ Life.” Applause followed the first part, and 
increased after the second ; but, upon the completion 
of the third, the sounds of approval 'were loud and 
long ; round succeeded round, and, amidst many de- 
mands for a repetition and renewed applause, Josef 
returned to the front. Again I saw him look down 
towards Miss Gordon ; but, without waiting to read 
the signs in her face, he commenced a passionate Te 
Deum , — a hymn of praise, thanksgiving, and love, such 
as might have spontaneously arisen from the Israelite 
musicians, saved from destruction by their God. The 
music was not familiar to me ; I thought it must be an 
adaptation from an oratorio, but I was at a loss to 
know whose composition it resembled ; but as he played 
on, the exuberant joy and gratitude faded away, and 


FOR LOVE AJSTD HONOR. 


169 


was succeeded by a theme of light and yet pathetic 
tenderness. A murmur of love and eternal devotion 
was a not unnatural complement of the fervid and ex- 
alted outburst of gratitude and praise; but, from a 
musician’s point of view, the two movements, unbroken 
by a rest, were inconsistent with each other, and this 
want of consistency convinced me that the rhapsody 
was nothing more than an impromptu. I was astounded 
by Josefs audacity, and could then only attribute it to 
the exciting influence of the appbuse. In reality, it 
was gratitude and devotion to Miss Gordon alone which 
had carried him away, and he took the only means he 
had of letting her know his feelings towards her. The 
critical audience was mystified and silent ; the general 
audience loudly proclaimed approval. 

I did not see Josef until he returned from the con- 
cert hall ; he was then utterly dejected. 

“ It is no use trying to cheat ourselves, father,” he 
said, in response to the congratulations with which I 
had endeavored to raise his spirits, “ I am not a great 
musician, and must descend from the false position I 
have taken. I owe my engagement to Mr. Fleming. 
Probably he paid for my debut ; without him, I should 
not be allowed to play a second time upon that plat- 
form. And as his patronage is due to no other reason 
that I know of than caprice, so at a moment he may 
cease to patronize me.” 

There are moments in every artist’s career when he 
mistrusts his own ability and is depressed with fears of 
waning power. This I said to my boy, and tried to 
assure him that he would regard his position more 
hopefully after a time. “ W e shall see,” he said shrug- 
ging his shoulders. 

On Monday, some critiques upon the Orpheonic Mat- 
inee appeared in the daily papers. They were all 
adverse. They spoke of his performance as painful, 
and contrived to say bitterly spiteful things in terms 
of pity and condolence. One attributed his nervous- 
ness to “ conscious inability to execute the work he 
had undertaken ; ” and another, after alluding to a 
sonata in music of an emotional and “ popular kind,” 


160 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


said, “ Mr. Benedick’s performance suggests this ques- 
tion : Is there such a dearth of talent in London that 
Signor Lugini can find no better substitute for Herr 
Joachim than an unfiedged musician whose highest 
attainments are only on a level with the taste and in- 
telligence of a promenade concert audience ? ” 

Josef read all the articles without discovering any 
fresh mortification. 

“ They are right in the main,” he said ; “ I had no 
right to play to that audience. They were thinking 
of Joachim while they listened to me, and comparing 
my feeble playing with his. It was a presumption on 
my part to accept the engagement, and I must suffer 
for it.” 

He sat in his favorite place, the embrasure of the 
open window, and placing his elbow upon the sill, 
rested his cheek upon his hand with an expression of 
such hopeless dejection in his face as I had never seen 
there before. I took a seat near him. 

Sarah was sitting at her window, sewing. Over 
her head hung the goldfinch he had given her on her 
birthday, and in the window stood the pots of mignon- 
nette and musk they had bought together in the early 
market at Covent Garden. She was singing a little 
tune, and looking occasionally towards our window, in 
the hope, perhaps, of receiving a cheerful word from 
Josef. But he did not look that way ; he was not 
thinking of her. Ah ! if he had loved* her she could 
have given him consolation such as it is not in a father’s 
power to afford. It was inspiriting to look at her, she 
was so neat and pretty in her well-washed cotton 
dress and pink bow. 

There is our little Sarah, up at her window,” I 
said, hoping he would look that way, and be led to 
think as I thought. He nodded in assent, but without 
altering his position or taking further notice. 

I felt powerless to do any real good, but I did my 
best. 

“ Josef,” said I, drawing a little nearer to him, 
“ why should you take this first failure so much to 
heart? You are still young — very young. Few of 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


161 


our greatest musicians have succeeded in their earliest 
attempts. Be patient, my son ; persevere in your en- 
deavors, and when you feel yourself proficient, attempt 
again. Opportunities will arise. You may fairly hope 
to make a name and station for yourself by the age of 
thirty.” 

Josef laughed bitterly. 

“ Six or seven years ! ” he exclaimed, and then added 
angrily, “ what use will success be then ? ” 

“ Great prizes are worth waiting for,” said I. 

“ I am not thinking of music alone, father. The 
prize I yearn for will be won and carried off by another 
long before I am thirty. You do not know what 
makes my failure so disastrous ; and you could not 
sympathize with me if you did. Leave me to get out 
of my trouble by myself. You ean do no good.” 

I guessed what he alluded to, and thinking it advis- 
able to stamp out the wildly ambitious scheme by 
plain speaking, rather than to be silent and suffer it 
still to smoulder in his heart, I said — 

“ Perhaps I do know what this failure is more to 
you than it would have been to another. You thought 
to win more than name, and fame, and fortune by 
suecess.” 

“ How did you know that — who told you ? ” he asked 
eagerly. 

“ My own eyes ; and there is little that escapes them 
when my boy’s welfare and happiness are to be con- 
sidered. You were fascinated by the beautiful young 
lady you met at Mr. Fleming’s — she who sat before 
you at the concert, and to whom you played.” 

“ Is she not beautiful ? ” he asked, with a soft, slow 
emphasis ; a warm light coming into his eyes. 

“ Yes,” I said, “ she is beautiful indeed; but did you 
not see the diamonds that she wore ? ” 

“ No,” he said, “ I saw nothing but her eyes.” 

“ You did not see her diamonds ! ” I exclaimed. 
“Everyone was attracted by their splendor. Why, 
they were fit for a princess to wear ! ” 

“Then were they justly set upon her I ” Josef said 
reverejitly. 

11 


162 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


“If you had seen those diamonds,” said I, “you 
would not have dared to form the extravagant hope of 
winning her.” 

“AYliy not?” cried Josef fiercely. “All the dia- 
monds ill the Avorld cannot compare with her eyes, and 
those eyes have bid me hope, aye, more than that — tliey 
have said, ‘ Take me ; I am yours.’ ” He stood up 
with his arms outstretched, ineffable joy irradiated his 
face for a moment, then faded away like the light of a 
setting sun, leaving his countenance all dull and with- 
out life. He sank again upon the settle by the window. 

“ You deceive yourself, my boy,” said I ; “ she ad- 
mired your talent, and that admiration you mistook for 
a warmer feeling.” 

“ No, I have not mistaken,” he said, turning sharply 
towards me. “ J^yp^s nr^tnip r tha-n thp.± aftgnp.. Who- 
ever yet misread the language of beloved eyes ! I saw 
the love-lights kindle in those beautiful deep eyes.” 

“Josef, remember, you have seen her but twice or 
thrice.” 

“ What of that ? It is a feeble love that flickers and 
smoulders, and is only to be coaxed into flame; but 
great passion bursts into life the moment two ardent 
souls unite. Such love is too generous to stipulate 
for forms ; too noble to descend to the paltering cus- 
toms of those whose hearts are small. I told her with 
my bow I loved her ; and her eyes, responding, said, 
‘ Love me.’ ” 

I could not make reply ; my son’s voice and gesture 
gave eloquence to his words that stilled my voice. 

“When Ave have said so much, what more is 
needed ? ” Josef continued, after a pause. “ A queen is 
not to be Avooed as one Avould avoo a ballet girl.” 

I thought it Avell to show him Iioaa’’ impossible it 
Avas to sustain a passion Avhich could haA^e no practical 
outcome but his OAvn discomfiture. “ Josef,” I said, 
“ it is very natural that two young people, generous 
in thought, and beautiful in personal appearance, 
should look at each other Avith romantic eyes, and con- 
sider possibilities rather than probabilities; but one 
should temper even romance with reason. It is foolish 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


163 


and wrong to grieve seriously for the want of that 
which it is not possible you could get. You place 
yourself on a level with the child who cried for the 
moon.” 

Josef was not angry ; he asked me calmly to point 
out what was so ridiculous in his conduct. 

“You are inordinately grieved,” I said, “with what 
you consider your failure as a musician, as if that alone 
were needed to place you in a position to acquire Miss 
Gordon’s hand. But do you think that even the cer- 
tainty of gaining thirty pounds a week all the year 
round would enable you to make her your wife? You 
could not expect a lady like her to accept a home such 
as that income would procure.” 

Josef smiled. 

“ If I asked her to share this garret with me,” he 
said in a tone of perfect assurance, “ she would accept 
my offer. The objection is on my side, not on hers. 
What I would not ask her to accept is poverty ; what 
I would not accept myself is pecuniary help from 
her.” 

I could not understand this feeling of delicacy ; but 
it seemed to me that he was exaggerating the inequality 
between them. 

“ If you think Miss Gordon will accept you, I do not 
see why you should hesitate to ask her, with a present 
income at the rate of fifteen hundred a year,” said I. 

“ Fifteen ! I have but five, and that not an assured 
income,” said Josef. 

“Ten pounds from the Levity,” said I, holding up 
my finger, “ and thirty from the Orpheonic, which is 
to continue for a whole season.” 

“ I shall play at the Orpheonic Matinees no more,” 
said Josef. 

“ What, m.y son ! ” I exclaimed. “ You have Lugini’s 
signed agreement.” 

“ I have sent it back to him.” 

“ Great heavens ! You are under some terrible mis- 
take ^ ” 

“None at all. Whatever my faults may be, she 
shall not think of me as an impostor. She shall not 


164 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


hear the music hissed which has charmed her ear ; she 
shall not read the contempt of critics for the man she 
found worthy of her love. And so 1 shall play at the 
Orpheonic no more, father.” 

I groaned within myself, and could not continue the 
conversation. And I admit that this last piece of news 
crowned my grief, and made a deeper impression upon 
me than my boy’s romantic misfortune. Men love and 
forget, lose one sweetheart and find another ; but the 
loss of a thousand pounds is a never-ending source of 
regret to the thrifty. 


FOB LOVE AND HON OB. 


165 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

BLISS. 

I SAID to myself as I lay awake at night, thinking 
over my son’s folly — for his conduct appeared to be 
nothing less to me — “ It is not likely that Mr. Fleming, 
having taken so strong an interest in Josef, will regard 
his failure with indifference, or suffer him to subside 
into the position from which he has raised him, with- 
out making another effort in his behalf.” This reflec- 
tion gave me much comfort. I fell asleep with some 
degree of hopefulness. 

I was not wrong in my supposition, for at twelve 
o’clock the following day, as I was just at the corner of 
the square with a basket on my arm, in which I in- 
tended to convey the provisions I was on my way to 
purchase in the Blackfriars Road, I caught sight of a 
carriage in the distance with the servants upon it whom 
I now knew the sight of so well. I had just time to 
step into the baker’s and drop my basket out of sight, 
when the carriage passed me, I could see the wizen 
face of Mr. Fleming within. 

What should I do ? Get home as fast as possible, 
in order to make my civilities to Mr. Fleming, or leave 
Josef, who was at home, to receive him alone ? After 
some reflection I resolved to take the latter course, 
thinking that Mr. Fleming would have less difficulty 
in expressing his feelings privately than in the presence 
of a third party. Had I known him then as I knew 
him later, I need have spared myself this delicate con- 
sideration on his account. 

It was a good long half-hour that I waited at the 
corner of the square before I saw the carriage leave 
my door. I made my way across the opposite side of the 


106 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


enclosed garden, and ran upstairs as quickly as I could, 
eager to know what had taken place in my absence. I 
found Josef walking from one side of the room to the 
other, his head held high, his eyes sparkling with 
delight, and a smile of joyful anticipation in his 
face. 

“ The old gentleman has got him another engage- 
ment,” said I to myself. 

Josef came and embraced me, and with extravagant 
gaiety cried — 

“ Good news, father ! great news. No moping and 
mewing to-day. No work. Away with the confounded 
drama and infernal ‘ melos,’ ” with which words he 
swept off from the table the MS. drama and the scores 
he had been writing for it during the morning. 

“ What has happened, Josef ? ” I cried, trembling - 
with excitement. 

“ Sebastian Fleming, my good genius, my faithful 
imp, my genial dwarf, has been here, and brought me 
news that fairly intoxicates me. Let us have dinner, 
father, a fete dinner, with wine of sourest logwood. 
Dive deep under thq^ mattress, and bring forth half a 
crown at least.” How^he came to discover that, 
occasionally for safety, I put money there I do not 
know. “ To-day we will feast royally and early.” He 
took to pacing backwards and forwards again, as if 
motion was necessary. 

“Yes, yes; we will dine excellently,” said I, “but 
tell me what Mr. Fleming has done for you ? ” 

“He has told me that she loves me — the Queen 
Dorothy loves me.” 

“ But this is no news. You have told me that you 
knew she loved you.” 

“ What of that ? Does one tire of such repetition ? 

Is it not delightful to accumulate evidence of one’s 
happiness ? And how evident her love must be when 
even he, an old man with failing faculties, can read the 
signs so plainly ! ” 

“ And is this all ? ” I asked, in some dejection ; for I 
saw no good to be derived from the revival of his hope- 
less hope. 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


107 


“No; I am to see her, to meet her; she desires it, 
and to-niglit, I am to sit beside her in a box at the 
opera.” 

“ To-night ! “ That is impossible,” said I ; “ your en- 
gagement at the Levity will detain you at the theatre.” 

“ Confound the Levity ! ” cried Josef, with a boister- 
ous laugh ; “ the orchestra must do without me to- 
night.” 

“ My son, my son,” said I, “ for Heaven’s sake take 
care ! You may lose your position by such reckless 
neglect.” 

“ So much the better ! It is an unworthy place for 
one ennobled by her love.” 

I sank into a chair, and sat speechless with dismay. 
Josef burst into laughter at my lugubrious appearance 
and said, smacking me on the shoulder — 

“ Cheer up, father ! The world is not yet come to 
an end. There is more’ news to tell. I am to marry 
Queen Dorothy.” 

“ Is that more possible to-day than it was yesterday ? ” 
I asked drily. 

“Yes. This mysterious patron saint of mine has 
promised to make it possible to me. He will place me 
on an equality with her.” 

“ An equality ! How much does she possess ? ” 

“ She is entitled to £20,000 on her birthday in 
August.” 

“Then, together, you would possess a fortune of 
£40,000?” 

“ Well reckoned, father.” 

I gasped at the thought of my son having such 
immense wealth. 

“ What motive has he for such generosity ? ” I asked. 

“ I cannot tell ; I do not ask. He may be entirely 
philanthropic ; he may be partly insane — what does it 
matter ? ” 

“ But he knows nothing of you. Does he impose no 
conditions ? ” 

“ That I shall know to-morrow. These were the 
last words he said before calling the servants to carry 
him down to his carriage: ‘If you love beautiful Miss 


168 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


Gordon as you should love the woman you wish to 
marry, I will make your marriage possible. See her 
to-night, and convince yourself that you can endure life, 
sacrificing her love and relinquishing her entirely; 
or that you will make, for the realization of her 
wishes and your own, any sacrifice short of dishonor. 
Then come to me to-morrow with your decision, and, 
as that may be, so will I act ; either making her your 
wife, or turning her love from you to some man with 
stronger passions in his breast. Remember, I am rich, 
and to the rich nothing is impossible.’ ” 

“ It is clear he intends to impose some condition.” 

“ Yes. For the reason you have hinted at ; he knows 
me but little, and in making this marriage he is bound 
to provide a safeguard for Miss Gordon.” 

“What condition can he make that would satisfy 
him of your worth ? ” 

“ None that I will not accept,” said Josef, firmly. 
Then catching up his violin he added, in a tone of light 
gaiety, 

“ I will play my wedding march ! ” and with that he 
struck up a triumphal march, while I went about pre- 
paring dinner, oppressed with grave doubts. It seemed 
to me incredible that a stranger, with no stronger motive 
than caprice, should give an immense fortune to my 
son. I could not believe that, when it came to the 
final point, he would fulfil his promise ; it was almost 
too much to expect that he would. And with this re- 
flection I began to regret that Josef had come under 
the patronage of Mr. Fleming. I did not lose sight of 
the fact that this patronage had already enriched us 
to the extent of over eighty pounds, but eighty pounds 
would be but a poor set-off against our loss if Josef lost 
his engagement at the Levity, and was discontented to 
work steadily in his profession. 

Josef shared none of my misgivings ; his mind was so 
highly excited that it was incapable of moderation, 
and he was now mad with joy and hope, just as before 
he had been overwhelmed with despair. It was with 
difficulty I induced him to write a note of apology for 
me to take to the manager of the Levity. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


169 


The manager was in the stage-door-keeper’s room 
when I delivered it. He was a brusque, short-speaking 
man, the manager, and seemed to be in an ill-temper. 

“ Who is this from ? ” he asked, taking the letter. 

“ My son, Josef Benedick,” I answered timidly. 

He tore open the letter, frowning, read it through, 
and threw it down with an oath. 

“ Have you brought the band parts ? ” he asked 
sharply. 

“ My son gave me no music to bring.” 

“Did he say anything about the rehearsal to- 
morrow ? ” 

“Nothing, sir.” 

“ Look here, Mr. Benedick, I am a man of business, 
and I stand no nonsense in my theatre from any one I 
employ. Your son had notice, ten days since, that I 
intended to put up this drama, and it is to be produced 
to-morrow night. A week ago he had the MS., and the 
overture and solos ought to have been in practice three 
days since. They are not to hand now, and no arrange- 
ment is made for rehearsal. He thinks that he can do 
as he likes now that he’s put up for a star ; but he makes 
a confounded mistake. He gave me a bit of impudence 
the other night when I spoke to him, and signified that 
my show wasn’t good enough for him ; and this last 
cool piece of impudence settles his business as far as I 
am concerned. Tell him he need not put himself out of 
the way to enter my theatre again.” 

I attempted to appease his anger ; but he paid me no 
attention, and, after a few words to the door-keeper, 
left me and passed through the lobby-door. I returned to 
Blackfriars sick at heart, for if Josef should be deceived 
in his expectation of Mr. Fleming’s intentions, my worst 
fears would be realized. Josef was gone when I reached 
home. I waited with impatience for his return. Mid- 
night came and he was still absent. As the hours 
went by, and he did not come, I suspected that he had 
returned with Mr. Fleming from the opera, to learn at 
once the terms on which his patron would place him 
in a position to marry Miss Gordon — terms which he 
was more likely to agree to whilst still under the 


170 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


intoxication of an interview with the beautiful young 
lady who had so fascinated him. 

It was striking three when, from my window, I saw 
Josef coming along the side of the square. I hurried 
down with a light to meet him, feeling sure that he had 
important news to tell me. 

I was not in error. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


171 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE COMPACT. 

My son Josef was calmer than he had been in the 
evening ; but he was still highly excited. It was the 
excitement of one who has undertaken a desperate 
enterprise. 

“ It is done,” he said, in a low, impressive voice, as 
he sat down by the window. 

“ What is done ? ” I asked. 

“ I have accepted Sebastian Fleming’s conditions, 
and I shall marry Miss Gordon.” 

“Explain them to me,” I said, trembling with the 
thought of the fortune this marriage necessarily en- 
tailed upon my son. “ Tell me all that has passed be- 
tween you.” 

“ I will tell you all that has happened up to a certain 
point ; but beyond that I must be secret, and you must 
not tempt me to break that secrecy, for my honor is 
involved in it.” 

“That is enough, Josef,” said I. “Your honor is as 
sacred to me as to you.” 

He poured out a glass of water and drank it ; he 
pushed the window up a little higher to get more air, 
and took off his cravat. I removed the candle to the 
next room, and then took a seat beside Josef. One see- 
ing us there, seated side by side, in the dark, and talk- 
ing low, would have taken us for conspirators. 

I will attempt to write all that Josef told me, but 
without my frequent questions and often unnecessary 
interruptions. 

The opera had commenced when Josef and Sebastian 
Fleming entered the theatre. They were led to an 
empty box upon the grand tier. 

“ Look about you, Josef, look about you — your eyes 


172 


FOR LOVE A^D HONOR. 


have no need of glasses. Look about you,” said Seb- 
astian Fleming, when they were left to themselves. 

Josef advanced to the front of the box, and, glancing 
round the house, in a moment found Dorothy. 

She was in a box upon the same tier, nearly oppo- 
site. He shivered with excitement as his eyes dwelt 
upon the lovely face that had never been absent from 
his thoughts since first he saw it. Trebelli was sing- 
ing, and Dorothy was listening intently, and looking 
at the singer ; but her face was not radiant with delight 
as when Josef had played to her; it was pale and 
meditative. 

She seemed to feel his ardent gaze upon her, for sud- 
denly she raised her head, and, turning her eyes from 
the stage where Trebelli was still singing, she looked 
directly across the house to the box where Josef stood. 
She saw him ; her eyes expanded, her lips parted, her 
cheeks flushed, the fan slipped from her hand. 

“What do you see, what do you see?” asked Sebas- 
tian Fleming, shrilly ; he Avas looking at Josefs face. 

“ My love ! ” Josef answered, in soft, trembling tones, 
and speaking rather to himself than in conscious re- 
sponse to the question of his companion. 

Sebastian Fleming chuckled. 

“ What else do you see ? ” he asked. 

Josef saw nothing else. He and Dorothy looked at 
each other for some moments with full unflinching 
gaze. A man leant forward from the back of the box 
in Avhich she sat, looked across to see what fixed her 
attention, and said some words. She turned to answer 
him, and then dropped her eyes. 

“ What else do you see?” Sebastian Fleming asked 
again. 

“ The man who kept by Miss Gordon’s side at your 
concert.” 

“Mr. Gerard Launce. I will tell you about him. 
You can look at your sweetheart and listen to me at 
the same time. Will you have my glasses?” 

“No. I do not need them.” 

“ Love’s eyes are young and quick— young and quick. 
Mr. Gerard Launce is a beef-and-pudding-eating Eng- 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


173 


lishman. A very decent man, but with nothing more 
than physical strength and honesty of purpose to rec- 
ommend him ; he is the type of many good English- 
men — fond of hunting, and horses, and dogs. He will 
grow stout in middle age, and make a very good silent 
member of Parliament, a very good sort of man to 
marry a quiet, matter-of-fact, un romantic young lady, 
and bring up a round dozen of children respectably 
and well. Ills wife also should grow stout in mid- 
dle life, and grow less romantic and more matter-of- 
fact every day of her life. Miss Gordon loves him. 
Don’t be agitated, Josef. She is his step-sister, and her 
love is altogether of a sisterly kind. She admires his 
strength, does not see his weakness, or is only just 
beginning to do so, and is properly conscious of his 
moral excellence. There is not the faintest tinge of 
passion in her love ; nevertheless, she has promised to 
be his wife. Be calm, Josef — it is not her fault ; she 
never knew what woman’s love is until she saw you, 
and before that she had given her promise to him. 
Now you know why he keeps close beside her, and 
looks unamiable wdien you appear upon the scene. 
She consented to be his wife in affectionate submission 
to his wish, not from any desire of her own to change 
her condition. I tell you she did not know what real 
mature love is before you fired her soul. She would 
have married me had not Mr. Gerard Launce interfered, 
and taken her away for himself. I am not jealous of 
the young man. I am too old for that. My love for 
Miss Gordon is of the most paternal kind. Loving her 
in that manner, it is only natural I should wish to have 
her constantly near me to gladden the few years or 
months I have still to live ; loving her in that manner, 
it is only natural that, failing in my first wish, I should 
desire to see her married w^ell, and tc save her from 
such a mesalliance as that would be were she married 
to ]Mr. Gerard Launce. Look you — they are not alike. 
Compare them with your own eyes, if they are still 
side by side. Is she the wife for a stout, fox-hunting, 
boisterous English gentleman ; is he the husband for a 
woman of passionate yearnings, of ambitious aspira. 


174 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


tions, of cultured tastes, and delicate sensibilities? 
Could she sit content Avliile her lord nodded over his 
empty plate, or forget her dreams of sharing a hus- 
band’s glory in the reality of preparing a pudding for 
his dinner ? No ; her soul has no sympathy with mean 
things or commonplace associations. She was born to 
bo the wife, the companion, the help of an artist, and 
one v/ith passion equal to her own ; and she shall be. 
I have the power to control her actions, and I should 
be criminal to let her marry Gerard Launce, knowing 
that she has given her heart to you. She would not 
be false to him — she is too noble for that ; but she 
would pine away and die with a withered heart for the 
love of you.” 

lie repeated the last words again and again ; and 
then, as the finale of the first act ended, said, “ Come, 
give me your arm, the act is ended ; we will go round 
to the box of beautiful, delicate Miss Gordon. When 
we are there look in her eyes, and ask if all the love you 
see there is to be crushed and bruised from her heart 
by a husband like Mr. Gerard Launce ? ” 

They went round the eorridor to the box where 
Dorothy sat with Mrs. Stephen Launce and Gerard. 

“My dear young lady,” said Sebastian Fleming, 
“ my friend, Mr. Josef Benedick, wished to see you, 
and I have no doubt that you equally wished to see 
him.” 

Dorothy either did not hear what Mr. Fleming said, 
or would not deny the fact. She bent her head to 
Josef in silence. 

“ And I have no doubt that you equally wished to see 
him,” the old man repeated, but fixing his expression- 
less eyes upon Gerard as he spoke. 

Josef turned from Dorothy’s beaming face to Gerard, 
whose countenanee was dull and heavy as a lowering 
cloud ; and he bowed formally, whilst he said to him- 
self, “No! she shall not be the wife of any one but 
me. She has given me her heart, and I will keep it, 
and shield it with my life.” He bowed also to Mrs. 
Launce, who offered him the seat between herself and 
Dorothy, with a spiteful glance towards Gerard. Josef 


FOR LOVE AJ^D HONOR. 


175 


took the seat and turned to Dorothy. Their chairs 
touched ; he was close enough to catch the fragrance 
of her breath — to detect the slighter details of her 
beauty. 

“ I wished to see you — to thank you for the music 
yon sent me,” Dorothy said. 

“ I wished to see you, but not to receive your thanks,” 
Josef murmured. 

“ W e have been quite distressed, Mr. Benedick,” 
said Mrs. Launce, loud enough to be heard by Gerard ; 
“ Miss Gordon wanted to acknowledge the piece of music 
you sent, and I wished to let you know how happy we 
should be to see you at Grand'ison House, but we could 
not find your address. If you have any time to spare 
will you call upon us ? — we lunch at twelve.” 

In a few embarrassed words Josef accepted the in- 
vitation. He could not talk. The presence of the girl 
he worshipped made him dumb. Alone with her, his 
feelings might have sought expression in some passion- 
ate terms of adoration, an avowal of the love that con- 
sumed bis soul, but such speech was only for her ear. 
It seemed out of place to address to her the conven- 
tional trivialities of conversation. She also was silent ; 
but he saw her bosom heave, her lips tremble, her 
cheeks glow, and he divined that she was controlled by 
the same feelings which stilled his tongue. Happily, 
Mrs. Launce had much to say, and required no assist- 
ance beyond responsive acquiescence from Josef. 

Sebastian Fleming sat beside Gerard, with his eyes 
fixed upon Dorothy and Josef. “ What beauty ! 
What sweetness ! ” he said, again and again, to the 
gentleman by his side, taking no notice of the fact that 
these encomiums tended rather to aggravate than to 
relieve Iiis moody liumor. Despite the embarrassment 
of his position Josef was in a very heaven of delight. 
There was something delicious even in the embarrass- 
ment he felt. He wished for nothing better than to sit 
there in silence by Dorothy’s side ; to feel her presence, 
to inhale the air* she breathed, to watch her slightest 
movements, catching the graceful outlines of her arms 
and bust ; approaching his hand near to hers, yet dar- 


176 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


ing not to touch it, and contenting himself with the 
occasional contact of her dress ; stealthily turning his 
eyes towards her face to snatch a quick, furtive glance 
from her beautiful smiling eyes, and feeling that she 
shared his sweet confusion at the meeting. It was a 
cruel blow when Sebastian Fleming terminated the 
subtle rapture of these two young souls. 

“ Come, young gentleman ; come, Josef, your arm, 
your arm,” said he ; “ the men are returning to the 
orchestra, and we must conclude our visit, and go back 
to our box. We crowd the box inconveniently for Mr. 
Launce — inconveniently for Mr. Launce.” 

Mr. Launce did not attempt to deny the fact. 

“We may hope to see you again to-morrow ? ” Mrs. 
Launce said, giving her hand cordially to Josef. 

“ I shall not be happy until then,” Josef replied with 
a rapid glance at Dorothy ; and then he held his hand 
out to her, despite of Gerard, who had come between 
them. She gave him hers ; in the second that they 
were thus united he dared to press the hand he held, 
and the blood ran tingling up his arm and into his face 
as he felt a gentle pressure in return. The beating of 
his heart seemed to suffocate him ; he was bewildered, 
blinded, intoxicated with delight. He did not know 
how he left the box ; reason came back to him only 
when he stood in the crushroom with Sebastian Fleming* 

“Leave me here, Josef,” said the old man, “and be 
good enough to go down and tell my servants I wish to 
return home at once.” 

“ But there are yet two acts of the opera. You will 
return to your box,” Josef remonstrated, in a tone of 
dismay. 

“No. The noise wearies me. I must return home. 
Be not cast down — we will talk of beautiful Miss Gor- 
don, and how you are to make her your wife.” 

With this inducement to relinquish the present 
delight and pain of looking at Miss Gordon from a dis- 
tance, Josef left Sebastian Fleming and gave his mes- 
sage to the servants waiting below. Half an hour 
later they were seated in the millionaire’s private 
chamber — a room distinct from the gorgeously fur- 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


177 


nished rooms in the other part of the house hy being 
entirely without ornament. It contained no furniture 
but a large fauteuille, an escritoire, and a single chair 
for the use of his secretary or a visitor. 

After the servants had left the room, Sebastian 
Fleming sat in his chair beside the escritoire, with 
closed eyes, and mumbling some unintelligible words, 
while Josef w^aited in feverish agitation for him to open 
the important subject of their interview. 

At length the old man opened his eyes, and said — 

“ Tell me the result of your experiences this evening, 
Josef ; tell me what you learnt when you held Miss 
Gordon’s hand and looked into her eyes ! ” 

“ I learnt that she loves me.” 

“ And what do you think she learnt ? ” 

“That I love her with my whole soul.” 

“ You have no reason to think she will find herself 
in error ? ” 

“ What do you mean, sir ? ” 

“You believe that you can continue to love her 
under all conditions ? ” 

“ Great heavens ! ' Y es. Can you doubt it ? ” 

“ I shall see presently. Do you love her so that you 
would lay down your life for her, that you would make 
any sacrifice to make her your bride ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ You will accept any condition I choose to make to 
gain possession of her, and prevent her marriage with 
that sombre gentleman, Mr. Gerard Launce ? ” 

“Yes. I will accept any condition that does not 
oppose her honor or my own.” 

Sebastian Fleming weighed the words as he repeated 
them after Josef ; then opening a drawer in the 
escritoire, he took out a folded paper, and, holding it 
in his hand, said — 

“ In my hand is the written condition upon which I 
undertake to make Miss Gordon your wife. There is a 
pen there for you to sign it. As I have said, all things 
of an earthly nature are possible to the rich, and I wilb 
spare nothing to accomplish your marriage when this 
paper is signed. In all probability you will be the 


178 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


possessor of the beautiful girl who loves you in some 
few weeks from now — if you accept my terms. If you 
refuse them, she will not be your wife, but the wife of 
another.”' 

“Give me the paper,” cried Josef. 

“Not too hastily. First of all I must have your 
promise that you will make known to no one the con- 
tents of this paper. I do not ask you for an oath. 
Oaths are too frequently broken to be respectable. I 
want you to promise with the feeling that if you break 
your word you will be a liar in the fullest sense of the 
word, and no longer fit to be trusted by your fellow- 
men ; a despicable cheat, and an utterly worthless 
member of society.” 

“ I promise by all I hold sacred, and every hope I 
have, to reveal what I read to no one.” 

“ Good. There is the paper. Read it.” 

With a firm hand, Sebastian Fleming gave the paper 
to Josef, who, with trembling fingers opened it, and 
then read the twenty lines it contained. As he read 
his lips fell, he grew white, a cold shudder ran through 
his very heart ; having finished it he turned to Sebas- 
tian Fleming with blank incredulity, and said — 

“This is not a serious proposal ? ” 

“ Does it seem to you like a joke ? ” asked the old 
man. 

“ You cannot mean what you demand in this. You 
would not exact fulfilment of this awful penalty. It is 
a plan to test the strength of my love, and a test 
only.” 

“ Call it what you like ; but understand, before you 
put your name to it, that it is as serious as life and 
death, and heaven and hell. It may be only a test — 
that is to be seen — but of this be sure, if I see necessity, 
I shall call upon you to fulfil your agreement, and pro- 
claim to those whose respect is dearest to you, that you 
are a liar, a cheat, and a coward, if you fail to keep 
your promise. I shall hold that paper as a verifica- 
tion.” 

Josef read the agreement again word by word, frofii 
beginning to end, and recommencing when the words 


Fon LOVF AJS^D HONOR. 179 

became confused by the trembling of the paper. Then 
laying the paper down, he said — 

“No, I will not sign that condition.” 

Sebastian Fleming laughed shrilly. 

“ I did well to doubt your protestations. If you had 
so many lives as a cat you would have undertaken to 
lay them all down for the woman you pretend to love, 
but the first serious sacrifice you find you may have to 
meet for her sake, sets you quaking with fear. You 
flinch from danger like a girl from an uncharged pistol. 
He — he — he ! What an excellent soldier you would 
make, Mr. Benedick. I wonder you do not volunteer 
in these eminently peaceful days.” 

Josef met these sarcasms with patience. He felt, 
indeed, that he merited them in part, though not 
wholly. 

“ Give me back the paper, Josef, and excuse my merri- 
ment,” the old man continued. “ I am a little incon- 
siderate. One must not expect a young man to be 
beautiful and brave, a good fiddler and a good soldier at 
the same time. Let us part at once, and get you home 
as quickly as may be ; the day has been sultry, and 
one knows not but that there may be a clap of thunder 
before you can get your head under the bed-clothes.” 

But Josef still held the paper ; he was not to be stung 
into weak acquiescence. 

“ I conceive,” said he, “ that this condition is made as 
a safeguard for Miss Gordon ; in the first place, that I 
shall not marry her without feeling sure of my ability to 
make her happy ; and, in the second place, to release her 
in case I may be unfaithful to my duty.” 

Sebastian Fleming made an equivocal movement 
with his hands. 

“ But what assurance do you give me that this power 
I give into your hands may not be used cruelly or capri- 
ciously against me ? ” 

“ None,” said Sebastian Fleming. “ Such an assur- 
ance would destroy the force of the compact. I give 
you a wife, and you in return give me arbitrary pow'er 
over you. I do not wish to cheat you with an ill-con- 
sidered bargain. Look at your position in its worse as- 


180 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


pect. Take it that I shall enforce, without mercy or 
restraint, the full extent of power that written promise 
gives me ; set against that the possession of Miss Gor- 
don as your wife for twelve months, and the enjoyment 
of every happiness that love and money can bring ; con- 
sider the prize and the price, one against the other, 
without suffering yourself to build upon my benevolent 
intentions with regard to Miss Gordon ; and then tell 
mo whether you will strike the bargain or not. I am 
a merchant, and I look at every bargain from its bad 
side ; do you the same. Ask yourself if you will have 
so many months of* unalloyed bliss, or so many years 
of humdrum content, qualified with some weeks of pain 
in losing beautiful Miss Gordon forever.” 

“ Give me the pen,” cried Josef, throwing prudence 
to the winds. 

Sebastian Fleming handed him the pen, saying — 

“ Eead it through once more, Josef. Do not think 
one of these days to excuse yourself from responsibility 
by saying, ‘ I was mad with passion, and wrote my 
name in haste.’ ” 

Once more Josef read the paper. Suddenly looking 
up, he exclaimed — 

“ Why should I make this condition ? She loves me ; 
is not that enough ? ” 

“No,” said Fleming. “jVliss Gordon has not a far- 
thing, and will not have unless she marries as I wish.” 

“ I would not use her money for my own purposes if 
she had all that she is entitled to,” Josef said, coloring 
to the temples. 

“Well, well, that is one of those youthful assertions 
which is open to modification. A young man is gener- 
ally magnanimous before his marriage. But the noblest 
intentions may be changed by circumstances, as we 
have seen, Mr. Benedick — as we have seen. To return 
to our subject. I say again, you cannot marry Miss 
Gordon with nothing but promises to give her. For, 
granting you could induce her to live with you in a 
garret, do you think her friends would permit her so to 
degrade herself? Believe me, that though they rate 
their love more modestly, and boast less of the sacrifices 


181 


FOli LOVE_ AND HON OB. 

they would make for her, they consider her happiness 
more sincerely than you do. When the young lady 
outgrows her romantic notions, and finds you are no 
more than a second-rate fiddler, do you imagine she 
would be content, alienated from her friends and de- 
prived of the refined enjoyments of life?” 

“ I shall not ask her to marry me now. If she loves 
me she will wait until I can offer her a suitable position. 
With her love to encourage me, I will succeed in being 
something better than a ‘ second-rate fiddler.’ ” 

“ You will ask her to break off her engagement with 
Mr. Gerard Launce, whose fortune is equal to her own, 
and who loves her as much as it is in his nature to love 
any one, and wait an indefinite number of years with 
the possibility of your achieving some sort of greatness 
that you do not possess at present. He, he ! Don’t 
you think it would be easier for you, and better for all 
parties, to give way to Mr. Gerard Launce at once? 
He will wait. It is in his English nature to wait, and 
conquer by sheer force of holding on — a quality which 
I fancy is wanting in your character, my dear Josef. 
He will be ever beside her, working upon her feelings 
by patient fidelity and constant attention, while you 
will never be allowed to approach her ; and you will 
lose ground by absence, and possibly adverse criticisms 
in newspapers.” 

“ Why shall I not see her ? ” 

“Because your promises are unsupported by fact, 
and because your presence beside Miss Gordon would 
be prejudicial to her happiness. Mr. Gerard Launce 
will not permit it. He will not permit you even to see 
her to-morrow, unless you can show yourself a suitable 
claimant for his step-sister’s liand.” 

“ How do you know that ? ” 

“ By that power which in barbarous ages men like 
me employed for divination and prophecy — by reason. 
What were the prophets, but men who saw clearly, 
and formed logical deductions from what they saw? 
Had I lived in the time of the Pharaohs, I should have 
been honored for a seer ; had I been born in the Middle 
Ages, I should have been burned for a wizard. Here 


182 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


is a vaticination which, but for this explanation, you 
would attribute to second-sight — to mesmerism — to 
spiritualism, or some occult power such as unprincipled 
rogues still dupe the ignorant mob with in these days. 
I tell you that, to-morrow morning, Mr. Gerard Launce 
will call upon you, at your garret in Nelson Square and 
demand an explanation of your intentions towards his 
step-sister. Miss Gordon. He will call between ten and 
eleven o’clock. It will be well for your father to get 
his cookery finished by that time, and have the room 
presentable.” 

Josef looked at the weird old man with awe, which 
seemed to amuse Sebastian Fleming ; possibly his van- 
ity was flattered, for, after a moment’s j^ause, he con- 
tinued — 

“ I will go farther, Josef ; I will tell you the result 
of your interview, and the events consequent upon your 
refusal to accept my aid. When Mr. Launce asks you 
your intentions, and you have told him that you intend 
to marry Miss Gordon, he will demand what position 
you have to give his sister. You will reply that you 
have none, and he will then call you an impudent 
scoundrel, and promise to thrash you if you call at 
Grandison House. You will lose your temper, Josef, 
and say that he has nothing to do with the affair : that 
Miss Gordon alone shall decide whether you are to visit 
her or not, and that you shall call upon her whether 
he likes it or not.” 

“That is exactly what I shall tell him,” said Josef, 
hotly. 

“ Gentlemen in England do not fight duels now ; or 
here would be a pretty chance for you to call out Mr. 
Launce and settle your differences with him. Never- 
theless, our youth occasionally descend to fisticuffs or a 
scuffie with sticks. You are not wanting in courage, 
nor is Mr. Launce deficient in resolution. When you 
go to Grandison House at lunch-time, as you promised 
Mrs. Launce, Mr. Gerard will meet you somewhere in 
the neighborhood, and, after a few unpleasant words, 
he will proceed to thrash you, and, being stronger than 
you he will succeed to his complete satisfaction unless 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


183 


you are lucky enough to disable him with a heavy blow. 
But in either case the battle will he disastrous to you. 
Miss Gordon, wlio, as I have told you, loves Mr. Launce 
as a brother, will resent any injury done to him in the 
one case, and in the other she, in common with other 
women, will show small favor to a lover who has re- 
ceived a thrashing. In brief, you will, after more or 
less discomfiture, realize the fact that it is impossible 
to woo Miss Gordon, and still less to win her, in op- 
position to Gerard Launce’s approval. Your love affair 
will terminate in very much the same manner as a 
candle ends its existence — a flicker, darkness, and an 
unpleasant savor.'’ 

“This is but supposition,” said Josef. 

“ It is — whatever you chose to call it — the thing which 
must happen unless you accept the terms I offer.” 

“ And if I accept them ” 

“ Then the case is reversed. If, when Mr. Launce 
demands to know your position, you can reply, ‘ I have 
a fortune equal to yours ; talent as a musician, and be- 
sides that, the love of Dorothy Gordon, which you have 
not ; ’ he can have no excuse for opposing your pre- 
tensions. On the contrary, being a just and generous 
man, he will give up his own claims and put his step- 
sister’s hand into yours for the sake of her happiness.” 

“ Suppose your theory, plausible as it seems, is 
wrong ? ” 

“ What then ? the loss is mine ; the gain still yours. 
The conditions can only he exacted in the event of 
your marriage. If that falls through, and I have 
wrongly calculated, I forfeit the fortune I place at your 
disposal to gain your wife with.” 

Josef took up the pen and dipped it in the ink, but 
at the same moment Sebastian Fleming withdrew the 
paper, and holding it in his hand said — 

“You shall not sign this to-night; you do not know 
your own mind for three minutes together. You shall 
have no reason toYhink that you are not master of your 
senses when you agreed to the terms I offer. If Mr. 
Launce does not come to-morrow morning you may have 
a chance of seeing JMiss Gordon, and winning her in 


184 


FOB LOVE AND HON OB. 


the manner you suggested, and without my help. Be 
guided in your acceptance by events ; if in the inter- 
view which I predict for to-morrow morning you find 
that a fortune is necessary you can act as if you had al- 
ready signed this paper, and put your name to it after- 
wards. Now, go ; I am tired. I shall expect to see 
you at three o’clock to-morrow.” 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


185 


CHAPTER XXy. 

FULFILMENT. 

I LISTENED to Josofs long description of this strange 
interview with the mysterious old man, and then we 
both sat silent and thoughtful. I did not know what 
to think of it all. I could not even form a satisfactory 
guess as to the condition which Josef was called upon 
to sign, yet 1 saw that it must be of a solemn, and, in- 
deed, terrible kind, for him to hesitate, when passion 
was prompting him to immediate acquiescence. I 
dared not ask Josef to reveal the terms of compact, 
and I knew that it would be alike dishonorable and 
useless to attempt to extract them from him by con- 
vert questions. 

“ Well, my son,” said I, after we had sat some time 
in silence, “ tell me what you think of this proposal 
now that you are calm.” 

“ I think,” said he, “ that it is nothing but a test put 
to try the depth and value of my love for Miss Gordon. 
He would gain nothing by exacting the penalty to 
which I submit myself. He can have no object but 
that of providing security for Miss Gordon.” 

“ Your marriage does not necessitate your payment 
of the penalty.” 

“ Xo ; my marriage merely gives him the power to 
exact it if he thinks necessary. It is exactly what a 
man with his wonderful foresight would do to protect 
a woman he loved from the possible ill-treatment of a 
man whose sincerity he doubted. I believe he would 
not enforce the fulfilment of my promise under any 
conditions : it is, I think, merely a test to frighten 
me from marrying Miss Gordon if I am half-hearted.” 

“ He can make no claim upon you miless you marry ? ” 

“ None.” 


186 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ And he does not stipulate that in accepting his 
patronage you shall marry Miss Gordon ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ If, at the last moment, you chose to break the 
engagement, you would be free to do so ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then, Josef, my son,” said I, solemnly, “ I should 
accept his conditions.” 

For I knew Josef’s disposition far better than he 
himself did, poor boy. I knew how many sweethearts 
he had given his heart to at onetime and another, and 
how fickle and vacillating he was ; and I thought to 
myself that he would certainly break off the match 
with Miss Gordon after a few weeks, especially 
with the nearer prospect of the terrible conditions to 
which his marriage would subject him ; and, meanwhile 
he would be receiving large sums of money from 
Sebastian Fleming, of which I resolved to put a great 
portion in the bank to provide for the day when 
his patronage was withdrawn. I had also another 
motive for giving my son this advice. I knew that if 
he refused Mr. Fleming’s offer he would still continue 
to love Miss Gordon, to his perpetual misery and the 
detriment of his progress as a musician ; and I did not 
overlook the possibility of his contriving surreptiti- 
ously to see Miss Gordon, and inducing her to elope 
with him, and be his wife. I pictured to myself the 
deplorable state of things which w^ould result from his 
bringing home an elegant young lady to Nelson Square, 
who had no knowledge of domestic affairs, who dressed 
in grand style, and might, amongst other luxuries, 
require a room entirely to herself. 

“ Events shall guide me,” said Josef ; “ so far I will 
act by Sebastian bdeming’s advice.” 

I went to bed soon after this and was up betimes 
in the morning to carry out that part of Mr. Fleming’s 
advice which referred to me. I had everything as 
neat as a new pin by nine o’clock, and then I sat down 
to wait for the fulfilment of Mr. Fleming’s proph- 
ecy. 

Josef was also expectant ; he walked up and down 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


187 


the room, now and then looking at his watch, and stop- 
ping to listen to every sound resembling a footstep on 
the stair. I dare say he felt as I did, a certain kind of 
awe in thus attending our visitor. I confess that the 
same nervous apprehension affected me that I have 
suffered on the eve of those days when the end of the 
world has been predicted by an almanack writer, a 
clergyman, or some such highly educated and gifted 
person. 

Big Ben had just chimed a quarter past ten when 
we heard the porter on the ground floor of the fac- 
tory below call out “ Benedick ” at the top of his voice. 
The porter was a member of the “ Sons of Progress,” 
and could not be induced to call me Mr. Benedick. 

Josef threw open the door, and we listened; he quite 
pale, and I no better, I dare say. 

There was the sound of a man’s step ascending. I 
looked quickly over the balusters, and recognized at 
once the gentleman who had spoken so agreeably to 
me at Mr. Stephen Launce’s entertainment. It was 
Gerard Launce. Sebastian Fleming’s prediction was 
so far verified. 

I retired quickly into Josef’s little room, which ad- 
joined the large chamber, and, closing the door, drew 
a chair close to the thin partition, and sat down to hear 
what Mr. Launce and my son would say. 

I heard my son set a chair for his visitor, and 
then Mr. Launce said — 

“ I have come to speak to you upon a serious subject, 
Mr. Benedick. It concerns my step-sister. Miss Gordon, 
and I hope to speak dispassionately, and with a view 
to her welfare alone.” 

“ Her welfare is as dear to me as it can be to you,” 
Josef said. 

There followed dead silence for a minute ; then Mr. 
Launce spoke. 

“You have not attempted to conceal your feelings to- 
ward Miss Gordon, and knowing the grave consequences 
that must arise from such an open demonstration, I feel 
justified in demanding an equally open statement of 
your intentions.” 


188 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ I intend to marry Miss Gordon if she will accept 
me for her husband,” Josef said. 

“ Do you know that she is at the present moment 
engaged to me ? ” 

“ 1 heard of the engagement last night,” 

“ And that knowledge makes no difference in your 
views ? ” 

“None. When two men love one woman, he must 
give way whom she loves least. If Miss Gordon loves 
me, as I believe she does, then her engagement made 
with you before we met must count for nothing.” 

“That depends upon whether you consider Miss 
Gordon’s happiness, or your own, as the matter to be 
decided. You said that her welfare was as dear to you 
as to me ; and in that case you will agree with me 
that her present engagement is only to be put aside on 
your proving that she is likely to be more happy as 
your wife than as mine. I have known her since 
my childhood, and my love is not of a kind that will 
change. If she saw you no more she would marry 
me, and, in time, forgetting you, her married life would 
run on smooth and calm to the end. It is that life of 
tranquillity and peace which I wish her to enjoy, and 
unless you can give her as much, and more, by heaven ! 
you shall never see her again ! ” 

It seemed that he had lost sight of his desire to 
speak dispassionately, for his voice rose, and he ut- 
tered the last words with fierce energy. My son was 
not slow to catch the fire from his rival’s eyes. 

“ And how would you prevent our meeting, if we 
wished to meet?” he asked hotly. 

“ I would stand sentinel outside her door from morn- 
ing till night, if necessary, and thrash you if you 
dared approach it.” 

Here again was Mr. Fleming’s prophecy borne out. 

“ I will take a thousand thrashings,” cried Josef, “if 
your strength prevails over mine, and yet dare to meet 
my love.” 

“ Then I will force her to marry me, and remove 
her from your persecution,” 

“ Persecution ! ” Josef exclaimed. 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


189 


“ Yes, persecution. For if I hold Miss Gordon to 
her promise, she will be my wife, and your attempts to 
take her from me will be only a source of unhappiness 
and indignation to her.” 

There was a pause, and then Mr. Launce resumed, 
in a lower and more gentle tone — 

“ I have gone from my resolution. I wish to forget 
myself ; but that is difficult, my happiness being at 
stake. I do not desire to force Miss Gordon to marry 
me, or I should not be here. A simple letter of warn- 
ing to you would have served my purpose. Show me 
that you can give Miss Gordon a home, and provide 
for her happiness, and I will relinquish my claim, for 
I admit that she loves you as she has never loved me.” 

“ Oh, you are generous to ineF’ Josef cried, with 
warm gratitude. 

“ Xo. It is impossible that I should like you. I am 
thinking of Dorothy — of Miss Gordon ; and if I sacri- 
fice my hopes it is for her sake, not for yours. Let us 
be quite practical, Mr. Benedick. Tell me the position 
in which you stand.” 

Josef did not answer. As if to assist him Mr Launce 
after waiting some seconds for a reply resumed — 

“ To begin with — what money do you possess ? ” 

“ Something less than a hundred pounds.” 

“ Ah, your prosperity has only lately commenced. 
However, we may presume that you will not go back 
in your art with a wife to work for, and to encourage 
you in your endeavors, and may take your present 
earnings as a base for calculating your annual income. 
How much are you receiving from the Orpheonic ? ” 

“Nothing. I have broken my engagement. I am 
not a sufficiently good musician for such work as that 
audience requires.” 

“ I am sorry to hear that. What are you getting 
from the theatre ? ” 

“ That engagement, also, is broken. I have no em- 
ployment.” 

“ Do you mean to say that you have no capital, no 
employment, and no immediate prospect of engage- 
ment ? ” 


190 


FOB LOVE AND UONOB. 


“ That is my position.” 

“ And would you bring A'iss Gordon, who has never 
suifered privation, and has no special ability for work, 
to live here, and share your poverty ? ” 

“ No ; but I might ask her to be my wife when I 
have succeeded in making a name and position in my 
profession.” 

“ How long will you be in making that success ? ” 

“ My father thinks seven years a reasonable time.” 

“ Mr. Benedick, if you can offer nothing better than 
that prospect, I will not forego iny claim upon Miss 
Gordon. Both she and you are excited by a passion 
which has no deep root. You have seen each other but 
three times ; you have scarcely spoken a dozen words 
within each other’s hearing. Your love is based solely 
upon the senses, and as her beauty or yours fades with 
years, so that passion may die. What does she know 
of your inner character ? what do you know of hers ? ” 

“ Everything,” Josef said, with excitement. “ Is 
there a sweet, a good, a noble sentiment that has not 
its expression in that face ? Is it possible that such 
perfection of womanly beauty could mask a faulty 
nature ? If you brought a thousand proofs against her 
love I would disbelieve them all ! ” 

“ That is well said,” exclaimed ]\Ir. Launce. “ But 
my determination remains unshaken. She shall not 
be married into debasing poverty, and she shall not 
pledge herself to marry after so long a delay, when, for 
all her good qualities, the passionate first-love of youth 
has been outlived. Mr. Benedick, I warn you of my 
opposition, and I request that you will not attempt to 
meet my future wife.” 

I heard a chair move, and concluded that Mr. Launce 
had risen. 

“ Wait,” said Josef. “Have you told Miss Gordon 
that you should forbid me to see her, and enforce your 
claim to her hand unless you found me worthy to be 
her husband ? ” 

“ No. There has been no explanation between us. 
But I know that she has thought deeply upon this 
subject, and I believe would avoid meeting you if you 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


191 


visited Mrs. Launce to-day. Her sense of duty is 
stronger even than her love ; and when I tell her what 
has taken place between you and me, she will strug- 
gle to forget you, and hasten to place herself beyond 
temptation by becoming my wife.” 

“Can nothing save me? ” Josef exclaimed, involun- 
tarily giving voice to his thoughts. 

“ I cannot do more than I have done,” said Mr. 
Launce. 

“ Stop ; sit down. I have something yet to say. 
There is no escape. Mr. Launce, if I can produce, 
within twenty-four hours, a fortune equal to that which 
you possess, will you withdraw your claim to Miss Gor- 
don, and refrain from opposing my addresses ? ” Mr. 
Launce did not reply ; possibly he was too much as- 
tonished by this sudden turn to credit what he heard 
as a serious proposition. Josef, with a short laugh, 
continued : “ Have no fear. I shall rob no one. It is 
a hard bargain I must make for the money, and I only 
left it to the last because of the price it will cost me.” 

“ I do not perfectly understand you.” 

“ I ask you if you will withdraw your claim upon 
Miss Gordon in my favor, if, in twenty-four hours, I 
show myself wealthier than you ? ” 

“ Wealthier than I am ? ” 

“ Yes. Tell me how much money I need to be your 
equal ? ” 

“ Some twenty thousand pounds.” 

“ I will have twenty thousand pounds, and then my 
wealth will exceed yours a thousand-fold, for I shall 
have the love of Miss Gordon.” 

“ Are you serious ? ” 

“ Ah ! if you knew all, you would not ask if I am 
serious.” 

“ The possession of this money will not detract from 
the character you bear for honor.” 

“ No ; I obtain the money by running the risk of ” 

He checked himself, and then said, “ the risk of losing 
all that is dear to me, if I fail in my duty to Miss Gor- 
don when 1 am her husband.” 

“ Do I understand rightly that this fortune will be 


192 


FOB LOVE AND HONOB. 


given to you conditionally ; that the loss you allude to 
will be entailed by your infidelity to your wife ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ This offer must have been made by one who knows 
and respects Miss Gordon.” 

“ It is made by Sebastian Fleming.” 

“ I thought so.” 

“ I wait, Mr. Launce, for an answer to my ques- 
tion.” 

“ I cannot oppose you. If your fortune equals mine, 
and you are prepared to give such a guarantee of 
enduring love as the terms you speak of suggest, 
Dorothy’s welfare is provided for, and I should be noth- 
ing less than a scoundrel to compel her to keep her 
promise. Give me your hand, Mr. Benedick ; we should 
be friends, for I give up my love, and you are to make 
her happy ! ” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR, 


193 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

AN AVOWAL. 

Dorothy was in trouble once more. 

She was conscious that she loved Josef Benedick. 
Hitherto she had not thought of her feeling for hinx 
as a reality, a fact with practical bearings. It had 
seemed to her merely a recurrence of one of those 
childish fancies which it was necessary to lay aside 
with fairy tales and the delightful romance of girlhood. 
She had a great notion of her own importance, of the 
undeniable truth that she, as a woman, had her work 
to do, and was given life and an active intellect for 
some higher purpose than the mere enjoyment of 
luxuries and indulgence in pleasure. She was con- 
scious of her own excellence, and too proud to accept 
the position of a mere plaything, which ordinary 
pretty girls aspired to ; and for this reason she 
strenuously endeavored to expel from her mind those 
ideas which were natural in unthinking girls, but 
selfish and contemptible in a woman. In her early 
girlhood she had dreamed of such a lover as Josef 
Benedick — young and handsome, with large pas- 
sionate eyes, and admirable as a poet, or a soluier, or 
an artist. These visions Josef Benedick recaBed 
and realized. But she knew him so slightly. He 
had come so unexpectedly ; there was so little pros- 
pect of her knowing him more fully, that her 
thoughts of him were dreamy and vague — the im- 
pression he left upon her mind was like that created 
by the music he played. His image was surrounded 
by a soft atmosphere of romance that robbed it of those 
sharp details which gave a special identity to an 
individual. The agitation in her heart made by this 
beautiful musician, she said to herself, was but a 

13 


194 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


lingering folly of maidenhood ; it would pass away 
and be forgotten when she was Gerard’s wife, and 
actually engaged in those practical duties which he had 
said she would find. Nevertheless, it was difficult to 
get the “ folly ” out of her head ; the figure of Josef 
Benedick was not to be disposed of as the imaginary 
heroes of her earlier visions had been ; he was not to be 
included in the same category with the most charming 
of fictional paragons ; she could not say to herself, 
“I will think of something else,” and straightway 
forget him. She could not control her wayward 
thought. If she sat down to the piano her fingers 
involuntarily struck some note or chord that recalled 
the music he had played, and all other music seemed 
to her stale and unprofitable. She was discontented 
even with her favorite lieder ; the piano seemed so 
poor and inexpressive ! Only a violin could do justice 
to SAveetness and pathos, and Josef Benedick alone 
could play the violin. She would not talk about him ; 
but a delightful tremor seized her when she heard his 
name mentioned. The constantly recurring memories 
of him tried her. She felt that she should be easier 
and more herself Avhen the disturbing influence had 
passed away. She would be able to give more reflec- 
tion to the serious business of choosing a house and 
providing the requisites for the menage. And that 
business required more spirited attention than it had 
lately received : even JMr. Stephen Launce’s anxiety to 
get the marriage concluded before theTst of August 
hiiled to have any greater effect than that of vexing 
Dorothy’s spirit. The more houses she saAV, the more 
unpleasant and inconvenient houses in general seemed 
to be; and Gerard ceased to point out advantages in 
the proposed home. He seemed to be losing heart and 
courage — as well he might ; and when Dorothy pointed 
out deficiencies or defects, he Avould acquiesce in her 
opinion, and agree that it Avould be best to find a 
house that thoroughly pleased them before taking it 
for any length of time. Somehow the prospect of 
being a wife to Gerard grew less satisfactory as she 
drew nearer to the inevitable condition — not because 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


195 


she loved Gerard less, for her feelings towards him 
never varied except when her sisterly affections was 
more or less excited by his mood of sombre discontent 
— but because romance had unfitted her mind for 
reality. She felt a distaste for the practical affairs of 
life — a distaste such as that which children experience 
in returning to the matter-of-fact details of home life 
from a party or a pantomime. 

“ I shall be glad when it is all over ! ” she said, with 
a sigh ; and she looked forward to it being all over by 
about the second or third week in August. But she 
was not mistress of her destiny, poor girl ! and the 
meeting with Josef Benedick at the opera made it 
more difficult than ever to school her soul into passion- 
less indifference. It gave a new turn to her thoughts 
and feelings, and opened her eyes to a fact that she did 
not wish to see. With the knowledge that Josef Bene- 
dick was to be a visitor at the house in which she was 
living, the notion hitherto maintained that she should 
cease to think about him became untenable. How 
could she get him out of her thoughts, night or day, 
if he looked into her eyes, as he had looked into them 
at the opera? She looked forward with dread to 
meeting him, and yet that dread was mingled with an 
eager delight which showed how ungovernable her 
passion had already grown. By slow degrees she 
came to perceive that she loved Josef — not as she loved 
Gerard, but as Gerard loved her. She kncAV, now, why 
he was at times dejected. It Avas because she had 
not shown him such love as she felt for Josef ; she 
kncAV now the meaning of these sudden transports 
which had perplexed her, for, as ho had strained her 
to his bosom, so she could have strained Josef to her 
own. 

She thought of Avhat had happened, and was ter- 
rified to find how deeply she had committed herself in 
her simplicity. She was like a child that plays with 
fire, and finds only by pain how terrible is the element 
with which she has trifled. She had not attempted to 
conceal the feelings which Josef had inspired, and he, 
reading them but too plainly, had been encouraged to 


196 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


indulge his passion. When he pressed her hand, she 
had not drawn her hand away, she had even returned 
the pressure, unintentionally, but with a quick percep- 
tion of delight ; she had not thought of averting her 
eyes when they met his gaze ; and they had betrayed 
her love as palpably as his. 

Whither was this unguarded passion leading her? 
When and how would it all end ? she asked herself. 
She could not always escape him ; and shun him as she 
might, she would still regret the lost meetings, and 
love him the more for her denial. Sometimes they 
must meet, if Josef were Mrs. Launce’s friend and 
Gerard’s also, and then, however she might guard her 
actions, he would read the secret of her heart. ‘Her 
blushes would betray her; her timidity — her efforts 
to avoid him, all would be evidence against her. And 
Gerard would find that he held but a second place in 
her heart, and, though that -were no fault of hers, he 
w^ould be bitterly disappointed and grieved by her 
preference. Oh, if she could only love Gerard as she 
loved Josef what a heaven marriage would open to 
her — what unutterable joy would be theirs! She 
knelt down and prayed to God that the feelings of her 
heart might change — that she might love Gerard as she 
loved Josef ; or, if it were impossible that she could 
love Gerard more, at least that she might love Josef 
less. 

She said to herself that she would try her utmost 
not to love Josef ; she would do all she could to undo 
what was done; she would show him by her behavior 
that he had nothing to hope from her ; and, if necessary, 
she would tell him that she was affianced to Gerard, 
with the hope that he would withdraw, and so make 
her task less difficult. 

Full of doubts and self-questioning, Dorothy waited 
anxiously for Josef’s coming. At one moment she had 
thought of keeping her room and escaping the inter- 
view, but, with this determination to undo as much as 
she could of that which was done, she changed h.er in- 
tention, and in her inmost heart she was pleased that 


FOE LOVE AND HONOE. 


197 


they must meet, even though the meeting should be 
painful. 

She stopped in her room until the maid came and 
said that lunch was served. She trembled, and the 
color left her cheeks, for she knew that Josef had 
arrived. She waited for a moment to collect her 
strength when she had descended to the dining-room, 
then she turned the handle and entered the room. He 
was there, sitting near Mrs. Launce. He rose rapidly, 
and came towards her ; but the room swam round 
before her eyes, and she saw him as through a mist. 
She felt him take her hand ; he held it while he spoke, 
but she could not withdraw it. His eyes looked into 
her very soul, but she could not avert her gaze. She 
was enthralled, and knew nothing but that he was there. 
It was all a bewildering dream, and she the helpless 
dreamer. 

She scarcely spoke a dozen words during lunch. She 
ate mechanically what was placed before her, listening 
to Josef, whose slightest word fell upon her ear like 
the note of some most charming melody. 

He did not share her present mood. His spirits 
were exuberant. There was exultation in his voice. 
His manner was that of a man who has drawn the 
first number in a lottery ; the moment of fear and doubt 
was past ; he knew that the great prize was his. His 
conversation was fervid and brilliant ; it took a hun- 
dred different turns ; even Stephen Launce lost his 
habitual melancholy in following the lively fiow of the 
young musician’s talk. 

It astonished Dorothy, who had till now seen only 
the shadowed side of his character, to find how bright 
and gay he was. His manner disarmed her completely ; 
she saw nothing to fear. He maintained his gaiety 
throughout the course of the lunch. Only once he 
spoke seriously ; it was an allusion to his performance 
at the Orpheonic Concerts. 

“ I made a great mistake to play there,” he said. 
“ I tried a flight before my wings were grown. I am 
only beginning to be a musician. Up to the present 
momeht I have used my talent — and I have talent, that 


198 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


I know — for amusement simply, and with no noble ob- 
ject. I have abused art. It was only natural. A man 
needs the goal to be marked and the prize shown him 
before he engagys in a race. I lived for nothing but 
the pleasure of the moment ; there was nothing that I 
cared for beyond that, and I was in consequence care- 
less and laz}^ But that is all over. I shall be a trifler 
no longer. I intend to work and use the gift that 
Providence has bestowed upon me for some purpose. 
I will be a musician.” 

“ Then we may conclude that the goal is marked 
and the prize shown,” said Mrs. Launce. 

“ Yes,” answered Josef quietly ; “ the prize is worth 
all that a man can give for it.” 

As he spoke his eyes met Dorothy’s, and his look 
was deeply earnest. When lunch was over, Mr. 
Launce, apologizing, left the table, and returned to his 
room, where he spent most of his time sorting and re- 
sorting his papers with the interminable indecision of 
old age. In the course of five minutes he discovered that 
he wanted a memorandum, which was nowhere to be 
found. He rang his bell, and sent to ask if Mrs. Launce 
could be spared to come to his assistance. Mrs. 
Launce was in the drawing-room where she had just 
persuaded Josef to open the piano ; receiving her hus- 
band’s message, she begged to be excused for a few 
moments, and left the room. Josef was seated at the 
piano ; Dorothy sat beside it. lie ran the fingers of 
his left hand idly over the notes for a moment or two 
without speaking ; then, suddenly turning on his stool, 
he faced Dorothy, and looked her in the eyes, but with- 
out saying a word. Ilis expression was no longer 
light, or animated with triumph ; he was quite serious 
and grave. Dorothy’s color neither came nor went ; 
she sat immovable, waiting for what was to happen, 
and powerless to act for herself. When at length 
Josef spoke, he seemed to be continuing the train of 
thought which had been running through his mind. 

“I will be a great musician,” he said. “When I 
spoke of the goal and the prize, I was thinking of you. 
You inspire me with ambition. I would be great for 


FOR LOVE AED HONOR. 


199 


your sake. I would have all the world say that you 
have done well to love Josef Ilenedick. And I shall 
owe my greatness to you. When I think of you, sub- 
lime hiinnonies fill my mind, and it is by these I will 
V; ine fame. Fuller and fuller those harmonies shall 
swell as our souls unite and grow with love.” 

“ Oh, I must not listen to you,” Dorothy cried, rising 
from her seat. 

“ Must not listen to me ! ” exclaimed Josef, rising 
and catching her hand, which she had placed upon the 
piano for support. 

“ You must not speak to me of love. I may not 
love you,” said Dorothy. 

“May not; but you do! Can you say that your 
eyes are false, and that you do not love me ? Can you 
say ‘ Josef, you are nothing to me ? Whether you are 
happy or whether your heart breaks, 1 care not ? ’ ” 

“ Oh no, no.” 

“ I tliought all that was known to us, and there was 
no need for ordinary words. Yet, if you would be 
wooed, as other queens are wooed, you are in the right. 
See me, Dorothy, here kneeling by your knees, looking 
up into your glorious face, and repeating the words 
that you have already seen in my eyes : ‘ Darling, I 
love you ! ’ ” 

She tried to withdraw her hand from his, and, turn- 
ing away her head, she cried, passionately — 

“ Oh no, no ! Leave me.” 

“ Leave you ! ” he cried, springing to his feet, and 
coming to her side. “Leave you, Avith your love 
deiiied. Leave you, Avhen you are trembling with the 
love that quivers in my limbs. Leave you, with the 
great longing of my soul ungratified ? Oh no. Turn 
your face to me, you lovely soul ! Let your eyes speak, 
for they cannot lie ; for I will not leave you until you 
have said, ‘ I love you.’ ” 

Dorothy strove to keep her eyes averted : she was 
utterly bewildered ; her knees shook, and she Avould 
have fallen, but that Josef passed his arm round her, 
and held her against his breast. 

Her slender body yielded to his arms ; her head fell 


200 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


back, and, looking up, she beheld his face above hers. 
He was speaking. 

“Speak, darling; speak with those melting eyes, 
and if you will crown the delight of all my senses, let 
your lips say, ‘ I love you.’ ” 

Intoxicated with passion Dorothy for that moment 
abandoned herself to the impulse of her heart ; her 
eyes flashed back love for love, and her lips parted in 
one word — 

“ Love ! ” 

And then they were closed and crushed under 
Josefs passionate kiss. 

Suddenly Dorothy recovered herself, and covering 
her glowing face with her hands, she escaped from 
the room, exclaiming — 

“ Oh, I am a wicked girl — a wicked, wicked girl ! ” 


FOR LOVE AL'D HONOR, 


201 


CHAPTER XXVII. 
love’s sacrifice. 

In the afternoon Gerard called at Grandison House. 
He was shown into the drawing-room, and sat there 
alone until Dorothy came to him. He looked at her 
with anxious questioning eyes as she came towards 
him, for she was pale, and there was distress in her 
face. She crossed the room hurriedly, and, putting 
her delicate hands upon his shoulders, kissed him 
several times, with more than her customary warmth 
of affection. 

“ I am so glad you have come, Gerard ! ” she said, 
between her kisses. “ I wanted to see you.” 

She sat down by his side, holding his arm with her 
fingers knitted. 

“ I am later than usual, but you have had a visitor, 
and I thought it best to wait until he had gone. Mr. 
Benedick came to lunch, did he not ?” 

“ Yes,” she answered, and, feeling the blood rise in 
her face, she bent her head in shame. Gerard saw that 
sign, not without a jealous pang ; for one may make 
heroic sacrifices, and yet be vexed by trifies. 

“ I suppose he played and made himself very agree- 
able.” 

“He did not play, Gerard. But we will not talk 
about Mr. Benedick, if you please, dear.” 

Gerard looked keenly at her face, which was again 
pale, and said— 

“What shall we talk about, Dolly?” 

She was silent for a few moments, and then she said, 
with nervous trepidation — 

“ August will soon be here.” 

“ In ten days.” 


202 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ And Mr. Launce wished me to marry before that 
time ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ I don’t think I care for public Aveddin^s ; do you, 
Gerard ? ” 

“ jSTo, dear.” 

“ Then I see no reason why we should wait until my 
dresses are finished. We could be married quite soon, 
couldn’t we ? ” 

“ I have had the license in my pocket nearly a fort- 
night.” 

There was another pause before she again spoke. 

“You said once that you should not care to go to the 
club, or see your old friends when you Avere married. 
Did you really mean that ? ” 

“Yes; sincerely, I said AAdiat I felt.” 

“ And do you still feel that you could be content with 
my society alone ‘r” 

“ Yes.” 

“You Avould need some amusement other than T could 
give you ; you are fond of hunting. You never finished 
that season in Canada, Avhen you fancied you heard me 
call to you for help. And your friends, Mr. Brooke ‘ 
and Mr. Shirley, Avere obliged to come aAvay soon after, 
because they were Avretched without you.” 

“ That is Avhat they Avere pleased to say.” 

“ I don’t think Ave shall ever find a house to suit us 
in London.” 

“ What are you leading up to, little sister ! ” 

“Gerard dear, I want you to marry me — next week 
— to-morroAv ! — oh ! the sooner the better, and take me 
away directly to Canada.” 

“ Take you to Canada, Dolly ?” 

“Yes. I shall like the romantic life, the seclusion, 
and the danger. And I can make the log-hut more 
comfortable than you could. And you can ask your 
tAvo friends to come over and finish their season Avith 
you.” 

Gerard could not speak ; something rose in his throat, 
and choked him until, by an effort, he overcame his 
emotion ; then he said — 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


203 


“ I am afraid that scheme is not practicable, Dolly.” 

“Why not? Do not fear for me. I shall like the 
silence that you have told me about, and the cold will 
do me no harm. I can sit at home while you hunt.” 

“ Yes,” Gerard said, with womanly tenderness in his 
voice, “ the silence will be welcome to you, for no dis- 
cordant sound will clash with the divine harmonies 
that rise in your too-faithful memory ; solitude will be 
sweet when no one stands between you and the vision 
of what might have been ; winter may freeze the blood 
that feebly flows from your riven heart, and your last 
breath shall sigh the words, ‘ Thank God ! ’ ” 

The tears rushed into Dorothy’s eyes. She looked 
through them at Gerard for a moment in silence; 
then, bending her head, she asked — 

“ Have you learnt what happened this afternoon ? ” 

“ No, but I can guess ; that is enough.” 

“ What do you know ? ” 

“ I know that you love Josef Benedick as you can- 
not love me, dear.” 

“ I have been wicked, Gerard,” said Dorothy, in the 
voice of a repentant child. “ I have abandoned my 
self-restraint. But it will not be so again. I will be 
good. Do not think that I shall encourage even the 
memory of him. I will be true and faithful to you. I 
will not be silly. You shall never see me repine.” 

“ You sweet child. Love is not controlled by the will. 
Can you govern your dreams ? Could you forbid the 
vision of him you love to rise before your eyes ? You 
might put out those sweet eyes, and yet see him. 
You may do with your body what you will, but 
nothing can change the feelings of your heart — nothing 
check its growth but death alone. Strip the leaves 
from that myrtle, crush them out of form — they will 
but yield a stronger perfume while the life still lingers 
in their cells.” 

“ What shall T do?” she cried; and her despairing 
words sounded like an appeal for help. 

“ Trust in me, as you have trusted before, little 
sister. Believe . that I love you too well to let you 
suffer or despair. Believe, also, that I love myself too 


204 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


well to sacrifice my conscience for a brief and incom- 
plete delight. Still be my sister, and let me, as a 
loving brother, give your hand to him who has already 
w^on your heart ! ” 

“ Oh, Gerard ! ” she exclaimed ; and then with a 
long sigh she laid her cheek against his arm and kissed 
the cloth that covered it. 

He never parted with that coat. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR, 


206 


I 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

PROGRESS. 

Sebastian Fleming kept his word. I could scarcely 
believe it possible, until my son showed me a parch- 
ment-covered pocket-book — a bank-book he called it, 
with his name inscribed in fine old English letters, in 
which, upon the top of a clean page, he was credited 
with £20,000. 

I suggested to him at once the advisability of mak- 
ing a will in case of accidents. 

“ I have done it,” he said, laughing, and then, as if 
he had forgotten himself, he added, in some confusion : 
“ that is I — I — I have signed the agreement with Mr. 
Fleming.” 

“ That is not in the nature of a will, is it ? ” I asked 
anxiously. 

“ I have told you, father, that I am bound to secrecy 
with respect to that condition ; so, for God’s sake, do 
not attempt to betray me. Talk of something else.” 

Of course, I did not press him, but his inadvertent 
remark dwelt in my memory, and was the cause of 
much secret speculation. Matters made quick pro- 
gress after this. My son returned from the lunch at 
Grandison House in a state of wild excitement. In 
the evening, during my absence, he received a second 
visit from 'Mr. Gerard Launce. The following morn- 
ing he went to Grandison House, taking his bank-book 
with him. Coming home in the afternoon, he bounded 
up the stairs two at a time, burst the door open, and 
throwing his hat up to the ceiling, cried — 

“ Hurrah, father ! We’re to be married in a month, 
and you are to have for a daughter-in-law the most 
beautiful girl in the world ! ” 


206 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


Then he caught up his violin, played a wild rhap- 
sody, saying, “ This is the wedding march ! ” “ This 

the wedding-bells ! ” “ This the waltz that my love 

and I will dance ! ” and so on, as he went from one 
mad movement to another. 

Suddenly he stopped, and said — 

“ I’ve taken a flat in Kensington Chambers, father. 
I forgot all about that. You’ll have to turn out of this 
hole.” 

“ Kensington Chambers ! ” I exclaimed, “ why, that 
will cost you fifty pounds a year, if it costs a penny.” 

“ Fifty pounds ! I shall be content if it costs me 
less than three hundred, gas and everything.” 

“ Three hundred ! Gas ! ” I exclaimed. “ Why, 
how many rooms are there ? ” 

“ Six or seven.” 

“ My boy, 1 have only enough furniture for a couple.” 

Josef fell into a fit of laughter. 

“ Why, you don’t suppose you’re going to move all 
this old rubbish into those rooms, surely ? The com- 
missionaire would stop you before you had carried 
your frying-pan across the threshold. I have ordered 
a fashionable furniture man to see to everything, and 
you may depend there will be nothing wanting that 
he can put down in the bill.” 

This news made me grave ; for I thought how 
quickly that bank-book would alter its appearance if 
this extravagance continued. 

Josef burst into laughter again ; I have no doubt I 
wore a very long face, and he said, to add to my 
regret — 

“That’s not all, father. T have told the agent to 
provide necessary servants for the establishment, and 
he says we cannot possible do with less than a couple 
of flunkies to brush our boots ! ” 

“ Josef,” I said, “ I have cleaned my own boots from 
the day I first wore them, and I shall continue to clean 
them, please God ! until the day when I can wear 
them no more.” 

“Well, well, father; we shall see,” said Josef; 
“ however, I won’t oppose your wishes at present. On 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


207 


the contrary, I will beg you to polish them up with 
particular care to-morrow, for you are to accompany 
me, and be introduced to my bride’s guardian.” 

“Mr. Stephen Launce?” 

“ Stephen Launce, Esq.” 

“ Josef,” said I, “ the old gentleman will recognize 
me. I played the piano at an entertainment he gave 
at Grandison House.” 

“ What does that matter ? ” Josef cried, becoming 
suddenly serious. “You do not suppose that I am 
ashamed of you, father, or wish to conceal the fact 
that you are a musician ? ” 

“ Of course not, my boy,” I said ; and there the con- 
versation ended. N'evertheless, I felt by no means 
easy in thinking of the proposed interview, and deter- 
mined to say nothing about having been to Grandi- 
son House as a paid pianist unless the subject were 
alluded to. 

And now that the mysterious compact with Mr. 
Fleming was signed, and my boy almost at this mo- 
ment within the scope of its conditions, I began to 
regret that he had gone so far, and that I had given it 
my approval. I had hoped that the fear of those 
conditions would debar Josef from a rash and hasty 
marriage, and that he would flirt about with Miss 
Gordon as he did with his other sweethearts, enjoying 
his good fortune in a careful and economical spirit ail 
the while, and that in the end Miss Gordon would 
marry some one else, and place my son in a position of 
freedom to marry Sarah Grey or any other deserving 
young Avoman. At present, the prospect, to my eyes, 
Avas gloomy enough. Josef, I saAv, was completely 
intoxicated with love and good fortune. He Avas 
rushing into expenses madly, and in a feAV years his 
money Avould be squandered away, and he Avould be 
liable to Mr. Fleming for Avhatever the terms of his 
agreement required. 

The next morning I dressed myself Avith great care, 
and Ave Avent to Kensington by the underground rail- 
way, my son taking flrst-class tickets, which seemed 
to me an unnecessary expense, seeing that the trains 


208 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


at that time in the morning are not overcrowded, and 
that the atmosphere is just as unpleasant in the first- 
class carriages as in the third. 

I felt very nervous and uncomfortable in entering 
Mr. Stephen Launce’s grand house as a visitor. I felt 
that the servants must recognize me, if no one else 
did, and whenever anyone looked at me I fancied my 
appearance and behavior were being criticised. I let 
my hat fall once or twice, and didn’t know what to do 
with my hands. The pin in my collar got loose and 
stuck in my throat ; I could not fasten it, and dared 
not move my head, lest the pin should come out and 
allow my cravat to ride up over my collar. 

Miss Gordon was the first to meet us; she came 
from the drawing-room, and held out her two hands to 
Josef as he ran up the stairs to her. As I looked at her 
I thought her more beautiful than when I had seen her 
before — her face being less pale, and animated with 
the most charming smile of joy and welcome. It was 
not difficult to understand how she had turned my 
boy’s head. Standing there, face to face, hand in hand, 
they were the most perfect picture of youthful beauty 
my eyes had ever seen. 

“My father,” said Josef, as I came to his side. 

She turned to me, and in her open candid face there 
was a look which said — 

“ I love you for your son’s sake.” 

She gave me her hand, and her long delicate fingers 
clung to mine with a touch which was different to other 
people’s. I had made up a set of little speeches, and 
rehearsed them carefully ; but I was so nervous that I 
addressed to her the one I had prepared for Mr. Launce ! 
however, that did not matter, for I was so embarrassed 
that the words I spoke must have been unintelligible. 
She bowed her recognition, saying that it gave her 
great pleasure to think that we were to be so closely 
allied, and then we entered the drawing-room, where 
Mr. and Mrs. Laurice were sitting. 

Mr. Launce had altered' since the night when I saw 
him for the first time ; the nervous apprehensiveness 
ot his expression had given place to a look of deep 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


209 


despondency, or rather, I sliould say, of pained resig- 
nation ; it was that of a man who had received an irrevo- 
cable sentence as compared with one who awaits the 
jury’s decision. He did not know me, I am sure, but 
I could see by Mrs. Lauiice’s puzzled glance, which was 
furtively directed towards me from time to time, that 
she was trying to remember where she had seen my face 
before. She was a woman of the world, and her perfect 
self-command did much to relieve my embarrassment, 
for she entered into conversation at once, and I re- 
sponded readily, for she touched upon the weather, 
which was a subject I knew as much about as she did, 
but I took care to avoid colloquial expressions, and used 
only the longest words I could think of. I remembered 
also Mr. Belouse’s entreaty that I would play up to the 
SDsthetic furniture, and I used such words as he em- 
ployed. When the subject was exhausted, I permitted 
her to lead, and confined myself to assenting to what- 
ever she said. Happily, before either of us was wearied, 
fi servant announced that lunch was served, and we 
descended to the room below. It was a most elegant 
collation, but, as far as I was concerned, I should have 
much preferred a piece of bread and cheese or a simple 
sausage to the bewildering assortment of things upon 
the table. I had not the least appetite, and was so per- 
plexed between my fear of being thought hungry and 
gluttonous and my fear of seeming dainty and discon- 
tented with the food provided, that I rejected and 
accepted plates without any apparent reason, occa- 
sionally committing mistakes which were excessively 
unpleasant to myself, and must have made me appear 
very ridiculous to Mrs. Launce. This was especially 
the case with the caviare — a mess which I had never 
before tasted, and which I pray Heaven I never may 
again. 

“ Do you like caviare ? ” Mrs. Launce asked. 

“ Oh yes, excessively much,” I replied, not wishing 
to display my ignorance. 

The servant brought me the case, and I helped myself 
to about a quarter of a pound of it. I did not know 
how I was to eat it, andJ waited for some time in the 
14 


210 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


hope that some one else would take some ; however, no 
one did at that time, and then I had to decide for myself 
whether I was to eat it like jam with my spoon, like 
cheese with my knife, or like peas with my fork. I 
decided at length to eat it with knife and fork together 
like mashed potatoes. I'he first mouthful showed me I 
had made a mistake to take it. ^ly gorge rose as I 
swallowed it. It seemed to me that it was turned by 
the hot weather, despite the salt which had been put 
in freely to preserve it, or else it was insufficiently 
cooked. However, having taken it, I felt bound to 
eat it. Even Mr. Launce, who generally seemed ab- 
sorbed in his own thoughts, was struck with the 
tenacity with which I ate — for, loathing the stuff, I , 
could take but little at a gulp. 

“ You are very fond of caviare, Mr. Benedick,” he 
said. 

“ Quite too,” I said, swallowing the last salt morsel 
with a sigh of relief. , : . 

“ Take some more. Henry, give Mr. Benedick the 
caviare.” 

And I topk-^I felt compelled to do so — another quar- 
ter of a pound. But. when, later oh, I saw Mrs. Launce 
take a piece about the size of a pea and spread it on . 
toast, and when afterwards I learned the awful price 
that horrible stuff cost, I was overwhelmed with 
shame. 

I am thankful to say that very little attention was 
paid to me. My son Josef was in one of his liveliest 
moods; he was as free from constraint as if these 
grand people were no, more than his equals, and as gay 
and free as if Miss Gordon were no more than one of 
his old sweethearts, froin the Levity ballet. He rattled 
on from one anecdote- to another, and caused even poor 
old Mr. Launce to smile. 

After lunch ^Ir. Laiince came and sat by my side, 
Mrs. Launce having left the room with. Josef and Miss 
Gordon, and in a few words said how pleased he Avas 
that iMiss Gordon had fixed her affections upon a 
worthy young-gentleman, who AA^as so Avell' calculated 
to make her life happy. He said that Josef had given 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


211 


him satisfactory evidence of his suitable fortune, and 
he saw nothing to make him regret Miss Gordon’s 
choice, but much to render him thankful for it. 

He was yet talking upon this subject, and in the 
same strain, when Josef entered the room with Miss 
Gordon. They lingered apart, talking, and as Mr. 
l^aunce watched them, I saw his lips twitching with 
emotion. He rose from his chair, and walking to them, 
he said — 

“ Josef, I have told your father how content I am 
with the future which your marriage with my dear 
Dorothy ensures. I wish I might live to see all the 
happiness that 1113^ imagination conceives.” He turned 
to Miss Gordon, and the tears filled his eyes as he said, 
“I would like to say more, dear, but I cannot. My 
heart is full.” Then, with trembling fingers he put 
their hands together, and with inarticulate words of 
blessing he turned away, and left the room. 

“ The poor old boy seems always to be under the im- 
pression that he has not long to live,” Josef said, as we 
were on our way home. . . 

A few days later I went to see Josefs new apart- 
ments. The size of the rooms, the richness of the car- 
pets, the splendor of the furniture and appointments, 
terrified me. 

“ Josef,” I said, “ I cannot live here. I should fret 
every time I saw any one cross these carpets, in boots, 
and I should fear to touch the furniture in case of dam- 
aging it. I could not be happy amongst such extrava- 
gance, and so, if it is all the same to you I will stop in 
Nelson Square.” 

“ Very well,” he replied, with a laugh ; “ I suppose I 
shall not stop here myself more than six weeks. We 
are to be married the first week in September, and 
then we go to Italy for a time. When we return we 
shall take a house and settle down to a domestic life, 
for I find Dorothy less romantic than I thought, and 
she has a wonderful way of looking into the future.” 

A shade passed over Josefs face as he said this. 
Perhaps he was thinking how uncertain that future 
was, and how he should stand at the mercy of Sebas- 


212 FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 

tian Fleming ; but I could only feel delighted to think 
that Miss Gordon was less hare-brained than my son, 
and would have sufficient foresight to prevent the 
extravagance to which he inclined. 

It was the last week in July when Josef brought me 
word that Mr. Stephen Launce wished to see me. I 
called at Grandison House the evening of the same 
day. I found Mrs. Launce alone in the drawing-room. 
She sent at once to her husband, wdio she said was en- 
gaged in arranging his papers. When the conversa- 
tion began to flag, Mrs. Launce said — 

“Josef says that you also are a musician. May I 
ask you to play something ? ” 

I acquiesced, of course, and seated myself at the 
piano, where I had sat before on a very different occa- 
sion. While I played, and Mrs. Launce looked at me, 
she must have discovered who I was, and where she 
had seen me before. There was a curious expression 
in her face when I rose from the piano and she thanked 
me, which assured me that the question which had 
perplexed her was answered. 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR, 


213 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

DOOMED. 

My interview with Mr. Launce was short, and too 
unimportant to be remembered but for the significance 
it afterwards obtained. 

He said that he had at length got his affairs in order, 
and intended running over to the Jh-ench coast, where he 
had previously derived such benefit from the invigorat- 
ing air ; but that before going he wished to say good- 
bye to me, and shake my hand. “ Mrs. Launce would 
come with me,” said he, “ but I have with some dif- 
ficulty prevailed upon the dear soul to stay here with 
Dorothy, whose marriage is so soon to take place.” 

I shook the old gentleman’s hand, and expressed my 
wish that he would return invigorated by the sea 
breezes. He pressed my hand in silence, and we 
parted. 

When I told Josef of the slight matter, he said — 

“ Poor old fellow I I am sure he thinks he shall 
never see you again. It is strange how people will 
abandon themselves to a fear of that kind. If there 
were an epidemic he would get the disease by fright.” 

Josef took a bouquet to Miss Gordon every morn- 
ing — Heaven only knows how much money he spent on 
flowers ! — and usually prolonged his morning visit to 
Grandison House far into the afternoon ; but on the 
day following my interview with Mr. Launce, he came 
home much earlier than usual, and in a state of great 
agitation. 

“ Father,” said he, the moment he entered the room, 
“ what have you been saying to Mr. Launce ? ” 

“Xothing, Jo,” I replied, turning in astonishment 
from the fire, on which I had just been setting the 
potatoes for dinner. 


214 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ Then how has he learnt that you played at the en- 
tertainment given by him in the spring ? ” 

I told him 1 believed that had become known to him 
through his wife, and explained why. 

“ That’s like enough,” Josef said gloomily. 

“ You may be sure I wouldn’t tell him,” said I, “ and 
if it’s found out, all I can say is, I am very sorry. 
After all, Josef, it isn’t disgraceful to work for one’s 
living.” 

“ Oh no ; I’m not ashamed of you, father. God for- 
bid I should ever sink so low as that ! I wonder I 
have not mentioned the fact myself ; it w^as from no 
wish to conceal it that 1 was silent ; but my thoughts 
haven’t led me that way.” 

“ What’s the matter, Josef ? ” I asked, with lowered 
breath — for his gravity alarmed me. 

“ I have had a private interview with Mr. Launce. 
He asked me if it was a fact that you played dance 
music at private entertainments, and on my admit- 
ting that you did so, he asked me point-blank how it 
came about that you should be comparatively poor, 
and I the possessor of twenty thousand pounds. I 
was reluctant to mention the name of Sebastian Flem- 
ing, since certain things I should be constrained to 
withhold ; but he seemed to know of our relations. He 
said, ‘ Tell me if upon any pretext, Sebastian Fleming 
has induced you to accept his assistance.’ I was com- 
pelled to narrate what had taken place between Flem- 
ing and myself, Avith the reservation which my prom- 
ise of secrecy obliged.” 

“Well?” 

“Then Mr. Launce, with intense earnestness, begged 
me to forego my marriage Avith Miss Gordon, Avarning 
me in the same impressive tone to beAvare of Sebastian 
Fleming, to shake off my belief in his benevolent pur- 
pose, and regard him as a malevolent monster, aiming 
only at the destruction of those Avhom he could get 
Avithin his poAver. He declared that the condition to 
which my marriage Avould render me liable Avould be 
exacted Avithout mercy, either to me or the helpless 
girl I must involve in his toils. When I asked him 


FOU LOVE AND HOXOE. 


215 

what reason he had to believe that Sebastian Fleming 
was such a monster as he represented, Mr. Launce re- 
plied : ‘ Look at me ! a man broken down, brouglit to 
the very verge of insanity, utterly lost, and judge 
by my fate what yours will be if you place yourself 
within the power of Sebastian Fleming.’ ” 

“ Then he also has signed a contract with Mr. Flem- 
ing.” 

“ He would not admit it ; but his words prove it.” 

Josef and I sat silent for a time, whilst I thought 
carefully of wdiat he had told me. Seeing that Mr. 
Launce was in the enjoyment of a good fortune, and 
that his wife and he were on admirable terms of affec- 
tion, I confess I saw nothing in his condition which 
Josef should fear to submit himself to. Hack my im- 
agination as I might, I could think of no more serious 
penalty to be incurred than poverty or the sundering 
of those ties which bind a man to his family. And 
neither of these Mr. Launce suffered. Mr. Launce had 
clearly shown that his intellect was feeble, and it 
seemed to me an error to be guided by his counsels. I 
told Josef frankly what I thought, and it surprised me 
to find that my opinion did not revive his spirits, and 
encourage him to think lightly of the warning. 

This was more odd, since he habitually submitted to 
the guidance of his inclinations rather than to pru- 
dence. Usually he treated the most serious obstacles 
as trifles when his wishes led him onward. 

As I could only guess what that forfeit was which 
Mr. Fleming might exact, my opinion was not of great 
value, but it had at least the advantage of impartiality ; 
for Josef had the money, and I saw very little good to 
be got by the marriage — but rather the reverse. 

“ Father,” said Josef, “ one word more, and we must 
close this subject. Tt is impossible for you, knowing 
only what I have told you, to judge whether Mr. Launce 
is right or wrong. He may be influenced by fear to put 
a misconstruction upon Sebastian Fleming’s intentions. 
A few days will prove to me whether he is mistaken 
or not. Let us say no more.” 

He rose as he spoke, and left the room to put an end 


216 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


to the discussion ; but his last words had only increased 
the mystery in which this affair was enveloped. I felt 
sure that more had taken place in the interview be- 
tween Josef and Mr. Launce than my son chose to tell 
me ; how else could he know that the truth of Mr. 
Launce’s prediction would be proved in a few days ? 
And this suggested another question to my mind : In 
what possible manner could the prediction be pi-oved 
in a few days ? Only by the happening of that calamity 
which he feared. Would he be forced to declare him- 
self bankrupt? Would he be constrained to separate 
himself from his wife whom he loved so dearly ? I 
confess I looked forward to some such misfortune mth 
feelings of keenest interest, for what fate befell Mr. 
Launce he had said must also befall Josef. 

The following day, which was the 30th of July, I 
heard that Mr. Stephen Launce had left England for 
the benefit of his health, and he had gone, leaving his 
wife behind him, and accompanied only by his servant. 
This looked, indeed, as if my notion of an enforced 
separation was to be realized. 

The only news on the 31st was a telegram saying 
he had arrived at the village in Normandy where he 
proposed staying. 

But on the 1st of August, towards evening, a terri- 
ble message was telegraphed to Grandison House, by 
Henry Smith, the servant who had left England with 
Mr. Launce. 

This was the telegram : — 

“ Come at once. An awful accident has happened. 
Master went out for a walk alone this morning, and 
was discovered this afternoon at the foot of a cliff — 
dead.” 


FOR LOVE AEE HONOR. 


217 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A CRUEL KINDNESS. 

Examination confirmed the truth of the news con- 
veyed in the telegram from Mr. Stephen Launce’s ser- 
vant. Stephen Launce was dead. There was nothing 
to prove that his. fall from the cliff was not purely 
accidental ; the official inquiry resulted in a statement 
to that effect. But those who had watched his suffer- 
ings during the preceding months, knew that his death 
was not accidental, but a suicide, and the fulfilment of 
their painful expectations. To myself and Josef this 
terrible event was even more significant. 

It is frequently the case that one catastrophe quick- 
ly follows upon another ; and it was in the nature of 
events that within six weeks of Mr. Stephen Launce’s 
death, his widow died. She who had held up her 
head so bravely while the calamity impended was 
powerless to recover from the shock when it fell. I 
have noticed the same effect in minor circumstances of 
woman’s life. In a crisis no one is stronger than she, 
but when the dread event has taken place her pros- 
tration is complete. 

It is possible that she had guessed her husband’s 
secret, and knew that it was for her sake he had suffered. 

I purposely hasten over these events to come more 
speedily to those which resulted from them ; and for 
the same reason I leave the reader to imagine the 
many speculations in which my mind was engaged by 
the fate of Mr. Launce, and the terrible fears for my 
son Josef which naturally sprang therefrom. 

Josef was profoundly impressed by the news of Mr. 
Launce’s suicide — I use that word because I have now 
no doubt whatever that he died of his own will, and 
after long premeditation — and the gravity of the posi- 


218 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


tion in which he stood was constantly apparent to 
him. It seemed to make a complete change in his 
character ; one seeing him then, for the first time, 
would have found it difficult to believe that a few 
months — nay, a few weeks before — he had been wild, 
thoughtless, and gay. 

I saw very little of him, for when the news came 
of Mr. Launce’s death, he had left his old home, and 
installed himself in his new chambers ; but once or 
twice a Aveek he called upon me, and at these times he 
Avas silent and grave as an old man. He Avas not vio- 
lently agitated, as 1 had seen him ; there was no ex- 
hibition of passionate grief, and that made me fear 
that he had not relinquished his purpose of marrying 
Miss Gordon ; but, on the other hand, he showed no 
sign of restlessness, and that made me certain that he 
had not resolved to carry out his intention despite the 
awful Avarning he had received. 

It Avas characteristic of the state of his mind that at 
this time he never played. He had left his violin Avith 
me, and it Avas there on the little table before his eyes 
Avhenever he came to Kelson Square ; but he did not 
once take it from the case, or show any disposition to 
have it with him in his new home. 

I dared not question him as to his intentions, though 
the thought of them was a continual anxiety to me : 
the only time I alluded to my hope that he Avould profit 
by Avhat had happened, he said sharply — 

“ Do I look careless, that you give me this hint, 
father?” 

AYhen his old friends called upon me to ask why they 
had not seen him, I sent them to his chambers, hoping 
that they might give a neAv direction to his thoughts, 
and possibly tempt him back to the old, careless, happy 
mode of living. But he AA^ould see no one, and I believe 
shunned the society of every one but Miss Gordon. 
He lost no opportunity of seeing her, and, while she 
watched by the sick-bed of Mrs. Launce, he waited 
patiently in the room beloAv — he Avho never before had 
rested voluntarily five minutes inactive. Mr. Gerard 
Launce had seen him in the earliest hours of the morn- 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


219 


ing walking along the pavement before the house in 
winch she was. I think he must have been greatly 
moved by the loving tenderness of this beautiful young 
lady towards the dying woman. lie had seen girls 
light-hearted, frivolous, and rough, and the earnest 
sweetness of this delicate Miss Gordon must have been 
like a revelation to him of the more beautiful and wiser 
character of women. 

As, little by little, I found this out, it added to my 
distressful thought of Josef’s future. For though to 
my great satisfaction, the marriage was postponed 
indefinitely as soon after Mr. Launce’s death as the 
subject was mentioned, I, nevertheless, saw that with 
this deep and growing affection to sui:>plement Josefs 
passionate love for Miss Gordon, he would, when the 
time came, throw* all considerations of his own jeopardy 
to the wdnd, and make the young lady his wife. Still 
knowing my son’s fickle temper, I hoped much from the 
natural effect of time upon his temperament, and I 
reckoned that as his passion subsided, so the terrible 
consequences of his marriage w*ould exert a more power- 
ful influence over his consideration, and ultimately lead 
him to break off the match. 

For this reason I looked upon JMrs. Launce’s illness 
as an absolute blessing — heartless as it may sound to 
say so — and could not help wishing that her recovery 
might not be too rapid. 1 regretted her speedy death 
as much as any one ; it brought the climax within 
measurable limits. Within a few w^eeks Josef must 
break off his engagement or marry. My anxiety be- 
came almost insupportable, for no change had taken 
place in Josefs feelings towards IVIiss Gordon except 
that, as it seemed to me, he was more deeply and truly 
attached to her than ever. 

During this period of suspense, I ransacked my inven- 
tion for an cxi)edient to divert my sen from a course 
which, if the conclusions T drew were right, must termi- 
nate fatally for him. The only means I could think 
of was to seek Miss Gordon, divulge all I knew to her, 
and implore her to prevent such a terrible conclusion 
as threatened Josef by herself refusing to marry him ; 


2*20 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


and this plan I determined to adopt the moment I 
should have occasion ; I only postponed it in the faint 
hope that Josef might at the last moment retreat from 
his peril. I was not kept long in doubt as to his 
intentions. 

It was only three days after the death of Mrs. Launce 
that Josef came to see me, just at the moment when I 
was preparing to go to bed. 

‘ Father,” said he, sitting down in his old place by 
the window where he had sat so many summer even- 
ings, playing his thoughts, “ I have come to tell you 
news that will set your mind at rest upon a matter that 
has troubled it only too long.” 

“ Thank God ! ” I murmured. 

“ The time has come at last when I must marry ”— 
Josef stopped as if the mention of Miss Gordon’s name 
was impossible, and continued — “ when I must marry 
Aer, you know whom I mean, or I must quit her. 
Further delay is impossible. Alas ! I have yielded to 
the temptation too long. For her sake I should have 
parted long ago. But I did not know her character, 
and I was too weak to think that her happiness was 
dearer to me than my own. But the end has come. 
All is over. It is finished ! ” 

“ Have you said farewell to Miss Gordon ? ” I asked. 

Josef shook his head. 

“ Then what has happened ? ” said I. 

“ Gerard Launce spoke to me this evening. His un- 
selfish generosity shamed me, and roused me to a sense 
of my duty. I have held her hand, I have touched her 
lips, I have looked into her sweet face for the last time. 
We shall never meet again ! ” 

Then, throwing his arms upon the window-sill, and 
dropping his face into his hands, he cried, “ Oh, Dorothy, 
Dorothy, my lost darling ! ” and burst into tears. He 
wept and sobbed like a girl, and I wept also in sym- 
pathy with my dear Josef; but my tears were sooner 
assuaged, for I could not regret the course my boy had 
taken. Still his grief touched me to the heart, and it 
was some time before I could speak. I drew my chair 
close to his, and, laying my hand on his shoulder, said, — 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 221 

“Tt is for the best, Josef. Recent events justify your 
withdrawing from a marriage which would place you 
in such peril.” 

Josef lifted his head quickly, and, turning upon me 
quite fiercely, said, — 

“ Do you suppose that I relinquish her for the sake of 
my own miserable life, or that I would forego even a 
day of such happiness as she can give for fear of the 
pain Sebastian Fleming could inflict upon me? To 
possess her and to die while yet my lips were uncloyed 
with the sweetness of her kisses, what better could I 
wish ? That is the temptation from which I fly — the 
temptation to which I would yield if she loved me less, 
or if I loved her no more than I now love myself. It is 
not what I should suffer, but what she would endure, 
that makes me halt at the very edge of paradise ! ” 

I began to see what he meant, but he made it clearer 
to me after the silence of a few moments. 

“ Father,” said he, “ supposing that fate which be- 
fell Stephen Launce were to befall me; would you 
suffer ? ” 

“ My boy ! ” I cried — my voice choked with emo- 
tion. 

“ You would, for you love me,” said he ; “ but fancy 
I am a hundred times more dear to you ; fancy your 
heart younger and more sensitive ; fancy that your 
whole life and soul were centred upon me, and that 
you lost me, then you may conceive what Dorothy 
would suffer in your place.” 

“If she loves you no more than I do, your duty is 
clear.” 

At these words he turned his back to the light, and 
clasping his hands between his knees, ground them 
together. I could see he was trying to subdue his 
emotion ; his shoulders shook convulsively, and now 
and then the painful silence was broken by a stifled 
sob. Since Josef was a little child I had never seen 
him cry, and it racked my heart to watch him strug- 
gling to overcome his feelings, and to feel that I could 
do nothing to lessen his grief. 

“ Go to your old room, my dearest boy,” .1 mur- 


222 FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 

mured, after a while ; “ the bed is there just as when 
you left home.” 

He let me guide him into his room, and there I left 
him, closing the door gently behind me. 

Then I sat down, and thinking of this great trouble, 
fell to crying myself. It was true my heart was no 
longer young, but it was more sensitive than Josef 
imagined. 

In about ten minutes I heard the splashing of 
water, and knew that Josef was bathing his face ; I 
quickly wiped my old eyes, and assumed a cheerful 
look that he might take heart by my appearance. 
And I busied myself in getting out glasses and the 
bottle of spirits I keep in the house in case of sickness. 
While I was still engaged in this matter, Josef came 
from his room with a brisk step ; he carried his violin- 
case. 

“ I shall take this with me,” he said. 

“ That’s *right, Josef. There’s nothing like work to 
make one forget one’s troubles. Come, sit down, and 
we will have a little refreshment.” 

Yes,” said he ; “ we will drink together, father. 
It may be some' time' before we meet again. But I 
will write to you.” 

“ Are you thinking of going far ?” I asked. 

“ I don’t know where I shall go. I shall go out of 
England.” 

“ Soon, Josef? ” 

“ I shall start at once.” 

“ Not to-night? ” 

“ At once. I cannot rest. Here is the key of my 
rooms. You will sell the furniture, and pay niy debts 
with the money.” 

I nodded and took the key ; then we touched our 
glasses ; his hand was firmer than mine. I tried to 
say “ God bless you,” but the words stuck in my 
throat. 

He emptied his glass, but still lingered. Presently 
he said — _ ■ : .. . .. 

“ They will come to you to know where I am. You 
can say that I have gone abroad, but you must promise 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 223 

not to reveal where I am, or show the post-marks on 
my letters.” 

I promised. 

“ One thing more you must promise me, father,” he 
said. You must give me your promise not to tell 
nor to suggest even, the real motive of my departure.” 

“ I will promise that, and keep my promise faith- 
fully. But does not Mr. Gerard know it already ? ” 

Josef shook his head. “ No one knows it but you, 
father,” said he. 

“But what excuse did you make then for breaking 
your engagement ? ” I asked. 

“None whatever. They will not know, until they 
find that I have fled that the engagement is broken. 

“ I will tell you,” continued Josef, “in order that 
you may not be surprised into discovering my real 
motive to them. Mr. Launce died in debt to Miss 
Gordon. He had lost the fortune entrusted to his care. 
He was also in debt to Sebastian Fleming. Mr. 
Launce left nothing. Every farthing realized by the 
sale of Grandison House and the furniture there will 
be given up to him. For she — Dorothy — had forgiven 
Stephen Launce his debt to her, and, suspecting that 
Sebastian Fleming had been instrumental to his mis- 
fortunes, and the cause of that mental distress which 
ended only with his life, refused to accept the offer of 
assistance made by Sebastian Fleming.” 

“ Then she is not wealthy, as was supposed ? ” 

“ No. Sebastian Fleming has said that he would give 
her, upon the day of her marriage, the fortune his 
partner had lost, but she refused to accept anything 
from him.” 

“ But, Josef,” said I, “ if you go away without mak- 
ing some explanation, it will be thought that you have 
broken off the engagement because she has not the 
fortune you expected, and she will be led to think that 
you wished to marry her for her money.” 

“That is exactly what I hope they will say and 
think,” Josef said calmly. 

“ But, my boy, that puts you in a shameful position. 
You can only be thought of as a base and unworthy 
adventurer.” 


224 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ So much the better, if it will lessen Dorothy’s regret. 
1 want her to think ill of me. It is only that way that 
she will try to forget me. I do not ask you to aid the 
deception ; I merely beg you to say that you cannot 
explain my conduct. Your promise will justify that 
statement ; so give me your promise, father.” 

I promised, but with reluctance, for it seemed to me 
unjust, and bitterly unjust, that my son was to be 
accused of baseness, when his motive was nothing but 
nobly generous. 

“ And now, father dear, good-bye,” he said, rising. I 
embraced him in silence, not being able to speak, and 
then he took up his hat and his violin-case, and left 
me. 

The sound of his footsteps died away ; I heard the 
door close, and then all was silent. As I sat in the 
stillness, it seemed to me that I had heard his merry 
laugh, his cheerful voice, the lively tunes he played, 
for the last time ; and that he was gone forever ! 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


225 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

MISSING. 

It was towards the close of the following day that 
Mr. Gerard Launce called upon me. 

“ Is your son here ? ” he asked. 

“ No,” I replied ; “ I have not seen him to-day.” 

“ Have you any idea where he is ? ” 

I replied in the negative, and doubtless my faltering 
accent aroused his suspicion. He looked at me sharply. 

“ Do you know that he is not in his chambers, and 
has not been seen there since last night ? ” 

“ It is very probable,” I said. “Josef told me last 
night that he should leave the country at once.” 

“Did he say where he was going?” 

“ No.” 

“ Did he say when he should return ? ” 

“No.” 

“Do you know why he has left England?” Mr. 
Launce spoke still more sternly. 

I hesitated to reply, and he repeated the question. 

“ I believe he has left England to avoid marrying 
Miss Gordon,” I said. 

“ Why does he wish to avoid marrying her ? ” 

“ That I cannot tell you.” 

“ You must have asked him, and he must have given 
some explanation of his motives. Your very reticence 
sliows that you know more than you wish to tell.” 

“ I can only repeat, sir, that I cannot tell you.” 

“ Why cannot you — because you do not know ? ” 

I bent my head in silence. I could feel that his firm 
eyes were fixed upon me. 

He seated himself in a chair, and said— 

“ You do know, and you must tell me what you 
know.” 


15 


226 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ Why must I ? ” I cried quickly, for the thought 
of my poor hoy’s sufferings quickened my temper. 
“ If my poor Josef wished his motive to be secret, who 
will force me to betray it ? ” 

“ Do not misunderstand me, Mr. Benedick. I do 
not say ‘ you must ’ in the meaning of a threat ; I say 
you must if there is feeling in your heart and com- 
passion in your nature. Miss Gordon loves your son 
as she loves no one else in this world ; he is her conso- 
lation in the grief occasioned by her recent loss ; her 
trust, her hope is in him. Deserted by him, abruptly 
and without explanation^ what can she think but 
that he is false to her ? How is she to stand when all 
she clung to for support is taken away ? Can you 
know that she suffers, and withhold relief ? ” 

“What can I do?” 

“ Tell me why Josef has abandoned Miss Gordon.” 

I had given my sacred promise not to reveal Josef’s 
real motive, and I could not bring myself to assign 
the reason he had suggested. It seemed so shameful 
and unjust to attribute a mean motive to one who was 
so generous. Mr. Launce must have read these latter 
thoughts, for he said — 

“Did Josef tell you of his conversation with me?” 

“Yes. He said you had told him that Miss Gordon 
had lost, through Mr. Stephen Launce, the fortune he 
had expected her to receive on the day of her mar- 
riage.” 

lie was quick to draw a conclusion from the tone of 
shame in which I made this admission. 

“ Good heavens ! ” he cried. “ Is it possible that his 
motive is so sordid and mean ? — that he has escaped 
from this marriage because the girl who loves him has 
not the fortune he expected ? Answer me — is it so ? ” 

“ I am sorry to say that is the only explanation of 
his conduct I can give.” 

When I had said this, I sat with my eyes on the 
ground. Mr. Laqnce rose, and said — 

“ Mr. Benedick, I understand why you have sought 
to conceal this from me, and I sympathize with you. 
Good-evening.” 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


227 


He left me, and returned to Grandison House. Late 
as it was, Miss Gordon was watching by the window. 
She saw him coming, and opened the door. 

“ Have you come alone ? ” were her first words. 

“ Yes, Dolly. Let us go into the library.” 

The house was in disorder, for the workmen had 
been engaged all day in preparing the furniture for 
tlie sale which was to take place ; the library alone 
was undisturbed. Dorothy put her hand upon his 
arm as he closed the door and said — 

“Is he ill?” 

“ No, dear. I think not.” 

Dorothy gave a sigh of relief ; but, seeing Gerard’s 
gravity, grew quickly anxious. 

“ Some engagement has detained him, I suppose,” 
she said, in a tone of assumed satisfaction. 

“ I do not know, Dolly — sit down, dear. The fact 
is I cannot find Josef. He is neither in his chambers 
nor with his father.” 

“ Oh, some accident has befallen him ! ” 

“I think not. The fact is, dear, Josef has left 
England.” 

“Left England, without saying good-bye to me — 
without sending any message. Oh, that is quite im- 
possible ! ” 

“ lie was with his father last night, and told him of 
his intention to leave the country.” 

“Ah, some pressing business called him away. 
We shall have a letter to explain everything.” 

“ I hope so.” 

“But surely he told his father why he was going? ” 

“No. Old Benedick is as ignorant of his son’s 
purpose as — as lam. I have had an interview with 
him, and we can neither of us attribute any satisfac- 
tory motive for Josefs departure.” 

Dorothy sat with her hands in her lap, silent and 
thoughtful for some time, then she said — 

“ What were you talking about last evening ? I 
could hear Josefs voice, as I sat in the room upstairs, 
long after he had said good-night to me.” 

“We were talking about our present position, Dolly, 


228 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


and I thought it a proper opportunity to say that as 
you had no longer a home, and I thought of going away 
to Canada for the trapping season, it would be best to 
induce you to dispense with formal considerations, and 
be married without further delay.” 

“ And what did he reply ? ” 

“ Scarcely a word. As soon as 1 ceased to speak, he 
rose, and said : ‘ You are quite right ; there must be 

no further delay.’ Then he shook my hand, and went, 
abruptly, as it seemed to me.” 

“ Is that all he said ? I thought I heard his voice 
frequently.” 

“ Possibly. He was not silent until I made the pro- 
posal with regard to the marriage. Before that we were 
talking about your position. I felt it necessary to tell 
him the facts connected with your lost fortune, and to 
let him know that you refused to accept anything from 
Sebastian Fleming. I told him, in fact, that you were 
penniless.” 

Gerard watched the girl’s face to see if his words led 
her to imagine the cause of Josef’s desertion ; but the 
suspicion never entered hef mind, and the expression 
of perplexity remained upon her face. 

“ Perhaps he has gone to Paris to buy me a wedding 
present. You know how extravagant his love makes 
him. He has said often that he can find nothing in 
London good enough for me to wear.” 

“ It may be so, Dolly dear. Yet it seems strange that 
he should not have left a message, or sent a telegram, 
for he would guess how anxious his absence would 
make you.” 

Gerard did not wish her to rely with confidence upon 
that fragile hope she had found. 

“ He might have left at an hour when it was impos- 
sible to send a message, and telegrams, you know, Ger- 
ard, generally go to the wrong persons, or do some- 
thing stupid. Oh! there will be a letter to-morrow 
morning, I am sure ; and in the evening he will come 
back to me.” 

Gerard said nothing to shake this hope, and Dorothy, 
thinking only of Josef’s return, buoyed up her spirits. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


2*29 


But no letter came in the morning, and the day closed 
without any incident occurring to break the monotony 
of suspense. Another day passed in growing anxiety 
and alarm for Dorothy, and when, the following morn- 
ing, she saw the postman pass the door, she could wait 
and watch patiently no longer. 

“ Gerard,” she said, “ help me, dear. I cannot bear 
this uncertainty any longer. Take me to his father, to 
his chambers, to his friends — anywhere that it is 
possible to hear tidings of him. It may be a fruitless 
search, I know, but it will be more endurable than in- 
action.” 

Gerard acquiesced in her wish, as he always did. 
The previous night he had called upon me to see if he 
could learn anything of Josef that would be a relief to 
Miss Gordon to hear. But I could tell him nothing. I 
had received a letter from my son bearing the Calais 
postmark, but I burnt it in compliance with my promise 
to Josef. Of that promise I thought it well to tell Mr. 
Launce, as the shortest way of escaping his inquiries. 

“That is a wise provision on his part,” said Mr. 
Launce, frowning. I saw his fingers whiten as his grip 
closed on the stick in his hand. “ But there is some- 
thing of more importance than his whereabouts,” he 
continued, “ and that is the welfare of the unhappy 
young lady he has deserted. It is impossible to redeem 
her from misery ; but we must conceal the baseness of 
your son from her eyes — at least for the present. She 
will, in all probability, seek you before long, hoping to 
gain news of the deserter, and the best course you can 
take is to suppress what you know, and say nothing of 
your being in communication with him.” 

Thus put upon my guard, I was not at a loss when 
poor Miss Gordon called upon me. I professed to be 
as astonished as she by Josefs absence, and by express- 
ing the hope that if she heard from him she would im- 
mediately let me know, I warded off any question as 
to his wi’iting to me. But a strange thing happened for 
which I was totally unprepared. 

Miss Gordon was just about to leave my room, when, 
turning around she said — 


280 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


Can you give me the address of any old friend of 
his who might be likely to know something, Mr. Bene- 
dick ? He had many friends, I believe.” 

“ To be sure I can,” said I, anxious to please ; and I 
went into his bedroom for the note-book Josef used to 
carry in his pocket, and which he had left behind him 
as useless when he went to his new chambers. 

I uncorked my ink bottle, and was preparing to write 
out the addresses, when Miss Gordon, who clearly 
wished to have the book which had belonged to him, pro- 
posed that I should lend it her. 

“ But the book is full of addresses,” said I. 

“ So much the better,” she replied, taking the 
book from my hand. “ There is a greater chance of 
hearing what we wish to know.” 

It struck me that she would learn more than she 
wished to know from that book, for the best part of 
the names and appointments in it were of the shop- 
girls and young ladies of the ballet he used to keep 
company with. 


FOB LOVE ANJJ HONOR, 


231 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

WATCHING FOR SHADOWS. 

I RECEIVED letters frequently from Josef — as often as 
twice and thrice in the week — but always from a dif- 
ferent place. He could not rest ; he told me so. Some- 
times he would give me the name of a town to which 
he was going, begging me to write and say if I had seen 
Miss Gordon, and to tell liiin the slightest trifle relat- 
ing to her that I might hear. I could tell him but 
little, for all that I knew of her movements I learnt 
long after. She did not call upon me. Mr. Gerard 
Launce came nearly every day, and ever returned to 
her with the same answer — Josef had not returned. 
The book she had taken from me gave her some hope 
and occupation for a time. Patiently she went to one 
address and another, seeking for information. Many of 
the persons named no longer lived at the addresses 
given, for people of the sort Josef used to waste his 
time and money upon seldom stay long in the same 
residence, and those she found knew nothing of Josef, 
and only bruised her heart by their careless or spiteful 
remarks. 

She had formed a high estimate of Josefs taste and 
excellence ; his musical talent, his passionate love for 
her, placed him, in her estimation, high above ordinary 
men. Her own love blinded her to his faults, and she 
expected to And his friends men of genius, women more 
remarkable for mental endowments than physical 
beauty — the people he had chosen for his companions 
must in a measure, she believed, reflect his taste and 
feeling. They gave her bitter disappointment. The 
better sort were his employers, and spoke of him as an 


232 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


idle, wild, and untrustworthy young man, who had 
forreited their esteem, and was likely to come to no 
good; those who acknowledged to friendship with 
Josef and a liking for him were persons from whom 
Miss Gordon instinctively slirank. Nearly all had 
coarse voices, and many coarse manners as well. The 
men she found generally with short pipes in their 
mouths, which they were not always particular to 
remove in answering her questions ; most of them 
had sallow faces and red noses. That they wore 
shabby clothes and frayed linen, that they lived in 
garrets or underground parlors neither astonished nor 
dismayed her, for she did not expect genius to be rich, 
but their vulgarity was crushing. The women were 
all young and pretty, untidily dressed in faded finery, 
and their manner was either flippant or foolish. All 
his old friends had some comment to make ; the men 
were more charitable than the women. “ Poor old Jo ! ” 
the men would say. “ So he’s hooked it, has he ? 
Some of these precious gals that he was always fooling 
about with is at the bottom of it. I’ll be bound. Good 
old boy, too. Always ready to stand a drink. Hooked 
it, eh? Well, I’m jolly sorry for it. If he’d only stuck 
to his work he might have got on well. But there, 
when a chap gets mixed up with these chorus-girls he’s 
pretty sure to make a fool of himself, and he was 
wonderful spooney, Jo was ; always over head and ears 
in love with some trollop or another ; and they was 
always ready to spile him, for his good looks and his 
money.” It must have shocked and bewildered Miss 
Gordon to hear such things of the man she worshipped. 
“ I said so,” the girls cried, when they heard of Josef’s 
disappearance. “ I always said Jo would get into 
trouble in mixing up with a lot of fellows that he knew 
nothing at all about. He’d go and get drunk with any 
one, and the men are always ready to take advantage of 
a chap like that. When I heard that he’d come into 
a lot of money, I said, ‘ Mark my words, there’s some- 
thing wrong, on the q. t. How’s he to come into a lot 
of money, losing one berth after another, till pretty 
nearly all the shows in London’s got the hump over 


FOB LOVE A^I) HONOR. 


233 


him. ’Taint his father as gave it him, we’re quite 
certain — an old skinflint that borrows a tail-coat 
whenever he’s got to go out playing at a party, 
because he’s too mean to bu}^ one outright (this 
was a libel) — and it isn’t his friends that’s lent him the 
pieces, because there’s not one amongst them that’s up 
to three quid a week ; so he must have got ’em on the 
hoist, and that always ends in a bolt. I hope it may 
serve as a warning to him, if he gets out of the hole 
safe — that’s all the harm I wish him.” 

A great part of what she heard was unintelligible to 
Miss Gordon, and she was prepared to believe or dis- 
believe what was told her, according to its being for or 
against the character of him she loved. No evidence 
was strong enough to overcome her love. The sugges- 
tions of Josef’s former friends and acquaintances were 
unworthy of serious consideration, in her opinion, be- 
cause those acquaintances proved that they themselves 
were faithless, and not to be trusted. But that evidence 
removed the illusion she had been under with regard to 
the delicacy and reflnement of her lover. Her ingenuity 
was ready with a thousand excuses for his having 
such friends. He had unwisely confided in their 
professions of goodwill, and been deceived. But the 
fact was incontestable that he had associated with 
coarse, common men, and tawdry silly girls. The con- 
sciousness slowly dawned upon her that Josef was not 
a god ; but, as she was only a woman, that only in- 
creased her love for him. She felt some sort of i:>ity 
for the weakness that had betrayed him into such as- 
sociations, and pity is a stronger ally than reverence 
to a woman’s love. 

Painful as this knowledge of Josef’s weakness was 
to her at first, she became glad that she knew so much. 
In the first place, it supplied her with an hypothesis 
as to his mysterious flight. She believed that these 
false friends were the cause of his disappearance. Some 
one of the worthless girls he had known might have 
discovered his approaching marriage, and threatened 
to reveal a former liaiso?^ and he had fled to avoid the 
shame of discovery. In the second place, knowing 


234 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


what she knew, she could open her arms to him, and 
forgive him his past folly, and then she would help 
him to face and overcome the difficulty in which he 
had involved himself. “ It is much better,” she said 
to herself, “ that I should know all this before we are 
married, than that the facts should come to my knowl- 
edge little by little afterwards ; ” and with this as- 
surance she recovered her self-composure, and waited 
with anxiety, but with assured hopefulness, for his re- 
turn. 

That Josef would ultimately return she had no doubt. 
She trusted as implicitly in his love as in her own. It 
might be weeks or months before he came back to her, 
but that he would come sooner or later she knew. And 
for this reason she would not leave London, though 
Gerard wished her to go away. 

He naturally looked at the position from an entirely 
different point of view. He had good reason to believe 
that Josef was a sordid and heartless wretch. His own 
father had, against his own wish, and to his shame, 
admitted facts which proved that Josef had forsaken 
Dorothy because she had not the fortune he expected. 
The details furnished by his old friends still further 
proved that he was a fickle, reckless, self-indulgent 
lad ; Mr. Launce was ready even to accept the ballet- 
girl’s explanation of the means by which he had ac- 
quired his fortune, and to see in that a second reason 
for Josefs precipitate flight. It is needless to say of 
such an honest gentleman as Gerard Launce, that he 
breathed not a word of his suspicions to Dorothy, nor 
led her by any means to think that he coincided in the 
opinions and views of Josefs adverse friends. 

He himself felt sure that Josef would never return 
to Dorothy, and he hoped that this conviction would 
come to Dorothy as time removed the vivid impression 
Josef had made upon ber heart, andslie came to judge 
him by the scale of reason. It would then be early 
enough to display the damning facts against Josef, and 
show that he was unworthy to be remembered. 

This prospect opened once more to him the hope 
that Dorothy might be his wife, and that hope encour- 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


Ii35 

aged him to be patient. Yet his disposition revolted 
at times against the silence he felt hound by honor 
and mercy to enforce upon himself. It secretly irri- 
tated him to hear Dorothy put good constructions 
upon the past life of Josef, and form flattering excuses 
for his past actions ; and he not unnaturally wished 
that the action of time could he by some means accel- 
erated. 

There seemed to be a chance of doing this by get- 
ting Dorothy to leave London, and visit changing 
scenes, which would turn her thoughts into new cur- 
rents. When the sale necessitated removal from 
Grandison House, he i^roposed to Dorothy that they 
should go abroad for a time, hinting, in pardonable 
subterfuge, that they should seek Josef ; but she 
refused point-blank. 

“ Josef will return,” she said, “ and he shall And me 
here to receive him with my two arms open.” 

After one or two attempts to persuade her from this 
purpose, Gerard subsided into silence, and, at her 
desire, took apartments close to Grandison House ; but 
he was discontented, and though he said nothing, 
Dorothy was not long in divining the cause. 

“ Gerard dear,” she said, one evening, “ I wish you 
would let me seek some engagement where I could earn 
my living.” 

“ Good heavens, Dolly I Why should you want to 
work ? ” 

“ Because I feel my poverty. I have no home and 
no money, and I regret it while you are here.” 

He looked at her questioningly, and she continued — • 

“ If I had a fortune you would be content to leave 
me, and go away yachting or hunting ; but I tie you 
here, and I can see that you are pining all the while 
for fresh air and bright faces.” 

“Your face is all that I want to see, Dolly.” 

“ It is not cheerful to see always a face like mine. 
If you will not let me work, go away for a while, 
dear, and leave me here.” 

“ Alone ! ” 

“ I shall be quite happy. I have something to wait 


286 


FOR LOVE AEJJ HONOR. 


for and hope for ; I cannot go away ; it is different 
with you.” 

“ liave I not something to wait and hope for, Dolly ? 
Is it not worth waiting to see your heart one day at 
rest?” 

He spoke with one meaning for Dorothy, and an- 
other for himself. He persistently refused to leave 
Dorothy ; but, seeing that she was absolutely glad to 
be left alone, he frequently went for long walks, and 
was absent for the whole day. The time passed slowly 
for him, for as yet the three months that had elapsed 
since Josef’s departure had wrought no change in 
Dorothy’s heart. 

Josef wrote to me still, sometimes in terms of such 
passionate longing to hear of Miss Gordon that I 
feared his resolution would fail him, and he would 
hazard the worst that Sebastian Fleming could inflict, 
in order to gratify his yearning ; and this fear was 
increased when, in the month of January, his letters 
drew nearer and nearer to England. It Avas as if he 
were yielding to a magnetic attraction. I wrote to 
him, conjuring him, for Miss Gordon’s sake and for 
my own, to avoid any action which would jeopardize 
his welfare. I reminded him of his OAvn Avords, and 
even Avent so far as to hint that rather than see him 
placed in danger I Avould break my promise and reveal 
all to Miss Gordon. 

I understood my poor boy’s feelings. He Avas a 
stranger in strange lands, Avithout friends, and Avith 
not sufficient knowledge of foreign languages to make 
even acquaintance amongst the people he met. There 
Avas no resource for him but his own thoughts, and they 
must have continually dwelt on the girl who loved him, 
Avhom he loved, and had been forced to leave. I 
kneAv hoAv he must crave to see the beloved face, to 
hear the voice that had responded in tender tones to 
his avoAvals of love, to breathe again the air she 
breatlied. I pitied him Avith my Avhole heart, and 
felt his loneliness as if I myself Avere desolate and in 
sorrow. 

I Avrote to him, begging he would let me join him. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


237 


but he refused my offer, saying that he was irritable, 
and could better bear his troubles without seeing the 
wretchedness it gave to me. That letter he wrote from 
Paris, and then a week passed and no letter came. I 
felt sure that he was in England, and I was not mis- 
taken. 

One night Gerard returned late to the quiet little 
square in which he and Dorothy lived. Heavy rain 
early in the evening had induced him to take shelter 
under the hospitable roof of his friend Mr. Brooke, 
whose house was in Fulham. With him he stopped 
some time, and then the rain not abating, he bor- 
rowed an umbrella, and hastened on his way. The driv- 
ing rain compelled him to keep the umbrella before his 
face, so that his features could not be seen by any one 
in front of him, and he could see only the wet pave- 
ment faintly illuminated by the flickering light of the 
gas lamps for a few feet in advance. Suddenly he 
found himself close to a man standing alone and motion- 
less by the side of the pavement. In the quick glance 
cast upon him as he passed, he noticed nothing except 
that the man was standing in the driving rain, unpro- 
tected by either overcoat or umbrella. A few paces 
farth,er, and Gerard reached the house in which he lived. 
As he turned to ascend the steps, he looked back at the 
man he had passed ; the man was no longer standing by 
the edge of the pavement, he was moving away slowly 
by the side of the area railings that fronted the row 
of houses. Something in the contour of the figure pro- 
voked suspicion. He looked up at the front of the 
house. The light was burning in Dorothy’s room ; he 
listened by the door; there was no sound of movement 
to intimate that she had heard his approach, and was 
descending to let him in. He stepped down softly and 
glanced in the direction of the slowly retreating figure. 
The distance was now too great for him to see the back 
of the dark figure distinctly; but as he looked the 
figure stopped, and a white face was turned towards 
him. 

Who could be wandering there in the rain at this 
hour ? he asked himself. Beggars take better care of 


238 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


themselves ; a burglar would be more cautious to avoid 
observat’lon. It must be that his suspicion was correct 
— it was Benedick. Though it was to his own future 
advantage that Josef should be lost, Gerard hesitated not 
a moment when the suspicion was too strong to be dis- 
missed. He retraced his steps. As he advanced the 
figure retreated with quickening steps as Gerard’s 
pursuit became obvious. Gerard, seeing this, broke 
into a run ; then the figure stopped and faced him. 

“ Good God ! is this a villain ? ” was the thought that 
flashed into Gerard’s mind as he drew near to Josef, 
and recognized in his white and haggard face the 
features of the man who had deserted Dorothy. The 
water ran from his hat and the cuffs of his sleeves. lie 
did not speak, but stood looking at Gerard with soft, 
deer-like eyes in a manner that seemed to say, “ What 
would you ? Can you make me more wretched than I 
am ? ” 

Whatever angry feelings Gerard had nursed in 
thinking of Josef, they were subdued as he looked at 
that piteously wretched face. 

“ What are you doing here, Josef?” he asked. 

“ Watching for shadows.” 

The words sank into Gerard’s receptive heart. He 
was silent for a moment. Then he said — 

“ What do you mean ? Is it possible I have mistaken 
your motives ? Do you love Dorothy ? ” 

These questions were asked separately and apart, for 
Josef did not reply to them as they were asked. 

“I do not want to answer you. Let me go.” 

“No, you shall not go,” Gerard said, catching hold 
of Josef’s sodden sleeve. “ You must tell me why you 
are here.” 

“ I have told you. I came to walk past the place 
where she is, to see, if possible, her shadow upon the 
blind. I have seen it. She came once to the window 
and raised a corner of the blind. She could not see me. 
And now I will go away again. Have no fear, it is the 
last time you will see me, I hope.” 

“ I do not understand you. Your actions are con- 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


239 


tradictory. If you love Dorothy, why have you left 
her ? ” 

“ Has not iny father told you ? ” 

“ Yes, and I have believed him. But seeing you now 
I can believe that no longer. Tliere must be some other 
reason that neither he nor I know.” 

“ I can give you no other reason.” 

“ It is impossible that you can love Dorothy, and 
yet suffer her to pine for you in vain for no other reason 
than that she has not a fortune. You are not in need 
of money.” 

Josef was silent. Gerard continued — 

“ Have you been guilty of some foolish or unworthy 
action that you are afraid to confess ? If you have, 
banish your fears. Go to Dorothy ; she is waiting to 
forgive you, hoping to be of help to you. There is 
nothing she will not pardon, for she loves you, and will 
not believe that you do not love her. It was for you 
she looked when she raised the blind. She listens for 
passing footsteps, and is confident that you will return 
to her.” 

Josef turned towards the distant window, the tears 
rushing to his eyes and mingling with the rain-drops 
upon his hollow cheeks ; he clasped his two wet hands 
together, stretching them towards her, and, in a voice 
choked with emotion, cried — 

“ My darling ! ” 

“ Come, let me take you to her now,” Gerard said, 
once more putting his hand on Josefs arm. 

“ No ; now less than ever ! ” Josef cried, starting 
back. 

“Josef,” said Gerard, after a moment’s thought, “is 
it that you borrowed the money that you showed to me 
when I demanded that you should be in a proper posi- 
tion to address yourself to Dorothy?” 

“ Perhpcps.” 

“ And is it that you reckoned to repay that debt with 
the money you would receive with Dorothy ? ” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ If it be so, Dorothy may yet be happy. She shall 
have the fortune you expected ? ” 


240 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ You would give it her.” 

“ That does not matter. Never mind who gives it to 
her. She shall have it.” 

“ My God ! ” cried Josef, “ if I had waited ! — if I had 

trusted to ” he checked himself, and said, with a 

sudden turn, “ Money can do no good. You cannot 
alter my fate. Devote ^our care to Dorothy alone. It 
is for her sake, and hers only, that I fly from her. Some- 
times, as now, my weakness is greater than my strength, 
and I yield to the temptation to approach her. Heaven 
knows it is a constant struggle to keep the sea between 
us, but if you love her well enough to sacrifice your 
own happiness for hers, if you love her as I love her, 
you will help to keep us asunder, and endeavor to chase 
me from her recollection. I can tell you no more. Do 
not tempt me to yield to my baser wishes. Let me go 
while I have the strength to shut temptation from my 
eyes.” 

And with these words he put his hands over his eyes, 
turning .away from the light yet shining in Dorothy’s 
window. He walked rapidly from Gerard, and was 
quickly lost in the darkness. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


241 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A TOO HEAVY BURDEN. 

The next day Mr. Gerard Launce called upon me, 
and after recounting what had taken place between 
him and Josef, he asked me if I knew that he was 
actuated by a disinterested motive in quitting Miss 
Gordon. I was happy and glad to inform him that I 
was perfectly certain of his honor and freedom from 
sordid motives. He then asked me if I knew what it 
was that debarred Josef from marrying Miss Gordon. 

“ I can tell you nothing,” I said. 

“ I will ask you only one question, and to that you 
need reply but yes or no — Has he placed himself under 
an obligation to Sebastian Fleming ? ” 

“ I cannot answer you, sir,” said I. “ You may be 
certain that in preserving his secret Josef has no pur- 
pose that is not governed by love and honor.” 

“ I will not press the question further,” he said. 
“Your own silence and his convinces me that Josef 
has been enmeshed in the toils of that incomprehensible 
villain, Sebastian Fleming.” 

A few days later I received a letter fron Josef ; the 
letter came from Antwerp, and as there was no longer 
any necessity to conceal his location from Mr. Launce, 
I told him this. 

“ Poor fellow ! ” was all he said. 

The spring months were bitterly trying for delicate 
people. One day was hot, the next cold, and the wind 
kept with obstinate perseverance in the east. Amongst 
others Miss Gordon suffered. She took cold; it lin- 
gered and finally settled upon her lungs. Then the 
cough which had alarmed Gerard the preceding spring 
distressed him again. He begged her to leave London 
until the weather became more genial ; but she treated 

16 


242 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


the cold as a matter of slight importance, and would 
not comply with his wish. She still expected Josef to 
return to her ; and yet there were times when the hope 
that had given her strength seemed to desert her, and 
she looked weary and tired. These periods of depres- 
sion enfeebled her, and the attacks of coughing in- 
creased. Gerard knew that if he could revive her hope, 
strength would return with it. But what hope could 
he give ? He felt sure that Josef would never come 
again to Dorothy until he were free from that mys- 
terious bondage which Gerard rightly conjectured 
was maintained by Sebastian Fleming. He was power- 
less to do anything for Dorothy or for Josef. He was 
tempted to tell her the truth, that she might, knowing 
all that had happened on that stormy night in January, 
consent to quit London ; hut the fear of the shock 
this would hiflict upon her deterred him. 

One morning in March the servant brought a mes- 
sage to Gerard, who was sitting in the hreakfast-room. 

“ If you please, sir,” said she, “Miss Gordon begs you 
to excuse her this morning.” 

“ Miss Gordon’s cough is worse ? ” Gerard said inter- 
rogatively. , ’ ■ 

“ No, sir ; it isn’t that, if you please. Mistress has a 
headache, sir.” 

Ten minutes before, Gerard had started to his feet 
and held his breath in alarm, hearing the long exhaus- 
tive cough of Dorothy ; and now, looking at the girl, 
he felt sure that she was concealing the truth from 
him. Without a word he passed her, ran up the stairs, 
and tapped at Dorothy’s door. A faint voice bade him 
enter. Opening the door, he found Dorothy lying 
upon the bed dressed. Her back was towards him. 
Drawing near the bed he saw that her thin cheek Avas 
deathly pale, and her closed eyes tinged with purple. 

“ It is thus she might look if she were dying,” 
Gerard said to himself, and his heart felt like lead 
within him as he thought that this Avas not a remote 
possibility, but an imminent probability. 

As he stood there, silent, by the bedside, Dorothy 
languidly opened her eyes, and looked toAA’ards him. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


243 


“I thought it was Lizzy,” she said. 

Gerard saw her hand slip under the pillow. 

“ What has happened, Dorothy?” he asked. 

“ I don’t feel quite well this morning, Gerard dear. 
Have your breakfast. I shall be strong presently, and 
I will come down to lunch.” 

“ You were strong enough to dress ; what has jjros- 
trated you? ” 

“ A little faintness — nothing.” 

Gerard caught sight of a tiny black streak in the 
angle of her lips. 

“ Dorothy,” he cried, in a voice of subdued and trem- 
ulous emotion, “ for God’s sake hide nothing from me. 
Why did you slq) vour handkerchief under the pil- 
low ? ” 

“ It is not pleasant to look at. I found a little blood 
in my mouth after the last fit of coughing,” she said ; 
and then, after a pause, “ What does it matter if I live 
or not now he is lost to me? ” 

She covered her face with her delicate hands, and 
began to cry like a child.- 

“ Have you forgotten your brother ? ” Gerard asked. 
“ Is my happiness no longer dear to you ? ” 

“ Don’t scold me, dear,” she said. “ I know I am 
heartless and forgetful of you ; but, oh, if you knew 
how unhappy I am, you would forgive me.” 

He sat on the edge of the bed, and leaning forward 
raised her head to his breast. 

“ Darling little sister,” said he. “ Have I not also 
loved ? I am not so strong that I can treat another’s 
weakness with contempt. Take heart, dear girl, for 
all is not yet lost. For you there is still hope.” 

He talked to her with what words of encouragement 
and comfort he could command, until the despondency 
to which her physical weakness had conduced was 
somewhat removed ; then he left her, and, taking the 
first hansom he could get, sought the practical assist- 
ance of a physician. 

When Dr. Petrel had examined Dorothy, he said to 
her — 

“Miss Gordon, this is not a case, I am happy to 


244 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


say, in v/hich it is necessary to conceal anything from 
your knowledge. You have ruptured a small vessel in 
your throat with violent coughing. Your lungs are 
at present free from disease, and the only thing your 
friends have to fear is, that you will not forget your 
duty to God.” 

Dorothy looked in questioning astonishment at the 
eccentric physician. 

“ That duty is,” continued he, “ that you shall take 
at least as much care of the life He has given you as 
you would of a canary or any other gift of ordmary 
friends. I say this because it is obvious to me that 
this cold has obtained its hold by your neglecting the 
ordinary rules of health, or that you have neglected 
them because, from some sentimental notion, you have 
looked upon your life as valueless. With ordinary 
care you will recover quickly, hut by perseverance in 
the culpable neglect to which I refer, you will as 
speedily sink into what is commonly called a decline. 
I may seem a little hard in speaking thus to one w’ho 
is in pain : but a doctor sees so much physical suffering 
that is unavoidable, that he is naturally rather impa- 
tient with those who need his help because they will 
not help themselves.” 

This rebuke did good. It aroused Dorothy from the 
apathy into which she had sunk, and stimulated her 
courage. She consented to leave London, and a few 
days later she wrote to me from Yentnor, saying — 

“ If Josef returns, give him my address and say that 
I pray he will come to me.” 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


245 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

CHECK FROM THE PAWN. 

My son wrote to me with regularity ; but nothing in 
his letters indicated that time had altered his feelings to- 
wards Miss Gordon, or lessened his distress in forsaking 
her. He never spoke of himself, except in reply to a 
direct question from me, and then always to the same 
effect. “ I live and grow older ; that is all,” he wrote. He 
did not complain, but I knew that he was silent be- 
cause he could say nothing to lighten my heart. He 
begged me to send him news of Miss Gordon, and com- 
mented upon the scraps of information I sent him in a 
manner which showed how he dwelt upon these trifles 
and pondered them in his mind. It was little indeed 
that I could tell him, and I saw no reason for concealing 
what I knew. My son’s constancy astonished me as 
much as any of the strange circumstances of his love. 
Miss Gordon seemed to have changed his nature entirely, 
and when I compared his present existence with the 
life he led before he knew her, it astounded me to find 
what control one person can have over another. I 
said to myself, “ What happiness would have accrued 
had a young woman like Sarah Grey exercised that 
power over him — a sensible, domesticated young per- 
son, who would have rescued him from his unworthy 
friends, and kept him steadily working in his profes- 
sion.” 

Sad as the position of affairs seemed at this moment, 
I Avas not entirely despondent. The fidelity of my boy 
and Miss Gordon to each other led me to hope that 
Sebastian Fleming would reward them for all they had 
suffered ; for, taking into consideration all that I knew 
for and against him, I could find nothing in his be- 
havior that was inconsistent with his professed deep 


246 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


regard for Miss Gordon’s welfare. With that wonder- 
ful reasoning power which approached almost to pre- 
ternatural insight, he must have seen that Josefs char- 
acter, when he first presented himself, was light and 
vacillating; and therefore he was not merely justified 
in putting Josefs avowal of constant love to a severe 
test, but compelled to make it out of regard for Miss 
Gordon’s future happiness. 

I did not share Gerard Launce’s opinion that Sebas- 
tian Fleming was instrumental to the death of Mr. 
Stephen Launce. What was there to justify that 
supposition? In point of fact, nothing. It was al- 
lowed that Stephen Launce had for a long while been 
suffering from mental weakness, and it was known 
that his brother had committed suicide under very 
similar conditions. I looked upon Sebastian Fleming 
as eccentric, undoubtedly, but considered him far too 
wise to throw money away, or to inflict pain without 
substantial reason. And, therefore, as day by day the 
evidence grew stronger that Josef’s love was true and 
deep, I calculated that Sebastian Fleming’s doubts 
would diminish, and that finally he would reveal the 
true nature of his feelings towards Miss Gordon by 
restoring to Josef the paper he had signed, and so 
removing the bar to their marriage. 

I refrained from even hinting my idea to Josef, fear- 
ing that any interference on my part would do more 
harm than good, and for the same reason I restrained 
my inclination to seek ]Mr. Fleming, and to lay my 
son’s letters before him, to tell him of jMiss Gordon’s 
dangerous ill health, and implore him to shorten their 
misery. The only person I spoke to upon the subject 
was Mr. Gerard Launce ; but no argument shook his 
hostility to Sebastian Fleming, whom he persisted in 
regarding as a man diabolically wicked or absolutely 
mad. 

It was a sunny day in March — the first warm day 
of the year — and every one looked bright and cheerful 
with the prospect of pleasant days to come, when I 
said to myself, “ This is just such a day as one might 
hope to see Mr. Fleming. It is on such days as this 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


247 


that one feels impelled to good and generous actions.” 
With this reflection I tidied up my room, and after- 
wards put on my Sunday coat. It was well I did so, 
for half an hour later Sebastian Fleming was led into 
my room by his servants. 

The queer-looking old man was almost hidden in a 
fur coat, but his face had not altered since the time I 
saw him first. He sat in the chair some time before 
he dismissed his servants, with his glassy eyes fixed 
on me, as he slowly recovered from the exhaustion of 
coming up the stairs. 

“ Surely this feeble old man cannot live much 
longer,” I thought ; “ and so, if he has no compassion, 
the young people have only to wait patiently for all to 
end happily.” 

He must have divined my thoughts, for as the serv- 
ants, in obedience to a wave of his hand, left the 
room, he said — 

“ It is a pity I don’t die, is it not, Mr. Benedick ? ” 

“ It is a pity that any man should die before all the 
good he can do is done,” I replied. 

“ And do you think I could do any good by living ? ” 

“ I am sure you could.” . 

“ There are very few who seem to share your 
opinion — very few, very few.” 

“ Perhaps there are not many who know you 
thoroughly.” 

“ That’s very likely,” he said, with a chuckle. “ But 
every one thinks his own estimate is the right one — 
you amongst the rest — you amongst the rest. Where’s 
Josef? he hasn’t been to see me lately, and I am too 
careful of myself to expose myself to the vagaries of 
this vile climate. Where’s Josef?” 

“ In Bruges, sir.” 

“ Bruges, hey ! That is not a gay city ! ” 

“ It is for that reason my poor boy is there.” 

“ One would have expected, after what has happened, 
that he would go to Vienna, or Brussels, Paris, or any- 
where that pleasure can be bought.” 

“ My son cannot find pleasure in dissipation now. 
It is impossible for him to think of the lady he loves 


248 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


and of ignoble things at the same time, and he loves 
her too well to dethrone her from his mind, and set 
up an unworthy object in her place.” 

“ Very fine, very fine, indeed ; did he tell you this ? ” 

“ I have not seen my dear Jo from the day he re- 
nounced his marriage.” 

“ But he has written to you ? ” 

“Yes,” I replied; and seeing the opportunity, I 
caught up the box in which I kept my son’s letters, 
and emptying them upon the table before Sebastian 
Fleming, I said, “Look through them, sir. You will 
find more touching testimony in his behalf than I can 
imagine.” 

He took a glass that hung from his chain, and 
examined a few of the post-marks on the envelopes : 
then looking straight at me, he said — 

“ Is Miss Gordon with him ? ” 

He may have thought to trip me by putting so sud- 
denly a question which implied that Josef was deceiv- 
ing him ; but my astonishment was too great to be 
mistaken. 

“ Good heavens, sir ! ” I exclaimed ; “ what could 
have put that notion into your head ? Miss Gordon is 
at Yentnor, in the Isle of Wight, with her brother.” 

I fished her letter out of my pocket and showed it 
him. 

“ Why is she at Yentnor ? ” he asked quickly. 

“ She is there for her health.” 

“ What has happened to her ? ” he asked, with in- 
creased sharpness. 

“ She broke a blood-vessel ! — her condition is critical 
— the physician says she may fall into a decline. This 
I learnt from Mr. Gerard Launce.” 

Mr. Fleming dropped his eyes, and said, as if to him- 
self — 

“ There is no calculating against east wdnds.” 

“ It is seldom those recover who do not care to live,” 
I said, seeing the impression the news of Miss Gordon’s 
ill health made upon him, and wishing to follow up 
the advantage I thought I had gained. 

“ How long has she been ill ? ” he asked. 


FOB LOVE AND HON OB. 


249 


“ I cannot say. She came to see me at Christmas, 
but since then Mr. Launce has come instead, saying 
that Miss Gordon was unable to leave the house. She 
has been at Yentnor only a few days, as you may see 
by the postmark.” 

He took up the letter, opened it, and read it through, 
examining the writing critically. 

“ There’s no time to be lost — no time to be lost,” he 
said, laying down the letter. “ Is there any likelihood 
of Josefs coming to England ? ” 

“ None.” 

“Then why does she desire you to give him her 
address ? ” 

“ Because her heart is breaking to see him, and she 
yet hopes he will return to her.” 

“ If she wants to see him, why does not she go to 
him ? ” 

“ Because she does not know where he is.” 

“ Ah ! ” he cried eagerly. 

“ I have not told her that, because at present it 
would be cruel to do so.” 

“Why?” 

“ Mr. Fleming,” I said, “ whilst my son truly loves 
Miss Gordon he cannot marry her without rendering 
himself liable to the condition you have imposed upon 
him.” 

“ What condition have I imposed ? ” 

“ That I cannot say ; my son promised not to reveal 
it, and he has kept his promise. But I can guess 
what it is. I believe that it is imposed merely for Miss 
Gordon’s protection, and I hope that in this pressing 
need of help you will return the paper to Josef. Yet 
even with this belief and hope, I would oppose the 
marriage while that paper remains in your hands.” 

“How?” 

“By telling Miss Gordon what I believe the terms 
of that agreement are.” 

Sebastian Fleming looked at me curiously, and said 
in that undertone with which he involuntarily ex- 
pressed his thoughts — 

“ Check from the pawn ? ” After a moment he 


250 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


added : “ I will not say anything to mislead yon, Mr. 
Benedick. You have a right to your own views, which 
I will leave you to enjoy. But as there is practical 
work to be done, it will be well to set suppositions 
aside for a time. I want to know if Josef and Miss 
Gordon have met since the death of Stephen Launce.” 

I replied in the negative, and told what I knew of 
Josefs coming to London and his meeting with Ger- 
ard. When I had finished, Mr. Fleming sat for some 
moments silent, and then said — 

“ If I have understood you rightly, the position of 
affairs is this : Josef is at Bruges, where he learns from 
you all that is to be known of Miss Gordon ; Miss Gor- 
don is at Ventnor, where she is purposely kept igno- 
rant of Josef’s movements ; and you intend to oppose 
their union while I retain the promise signed by Josef. 
Is that so ? ” 

“ Precisely, sir,” I said, beginning to tremble with 
excitement, for I expected that he was about to give 
me the paper to send to Josef. 

“Very well, then,” said he, tapping with his stick 
for his servants to return. “Now I know how to 
move.” 

With these words he closed the conversation, to my 
bitter disappointment and renewed perplexity. His 
servants carried him down to the carriage, and he left 
the square. 

Within an hour of that time Miss Gordon received 
an anonymous telegram as follows — 

“ If you wish to see Josef Benedick once more, go to 
him at Bruges without a moment’s delay.” 


FOB LOVE AND HONOM. 


251 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE FINDING OF JOSEF. 

Dorothy opened the telegram, and as she rose from 
her seat, a cry of mingled pain and joy escaped her 
lips, and with eager haste she put it in Gerard’s hand. 

“ Read it, read it ! ” she exclaimed ; and then the 
poor soul caught up her bonnet, as if to obey at once 
the hasty summons. 

“ Who can it be from ? ” said Gerard. “ The sender’s 
name is not written ” 

“It is from Josefs father. What need is there of 
his name ? There is no time for such consideration. 
See, it says, ‘ If you wish to see Josef Benedick once 
more ’ — oh, there is no time to be lost. He may be dy- 
ing — there alone. We must start this moment. You 
wdll come with me, Gerard dear.” 

“ Of course, dear. I shall not let you go alone. Be 
calm, Dolly. Remember you are also to be thought of. 
Can you bear this journey ? ” 

“ The only thing I cannot bear is delay when he needs 
me. Josef needs me — my Josef. And I am to see him 
again, to soothe him if he suffers, to bring life and joy 
into those beloved eyes.” 

Gerard regarded Dorothy’s resolution not without a 
feeling of regret and dread. Brief as their sojourn at 
Ventnor had been, it had made a marked alteration for 
the better in Dorothy’s health. The change of scene 
and air had acted like a tonic upon her, and given her 
a zest for life. It seemed to him, watching her with 
the wistful anxiety of a lover, that her wound was heal- 
ing, and that he might permit himself to think she 
would, before many days, recover her former happi- 
ness — a condition full of glad possibilities for him. 
But now the wound was once more to be opened, with 


252 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


what lingering suffering to her, what grief and dis- 
appointment to himself, he could not measure. But 
these considerations could not turn him from the pa- 
tient duties of disinterested love. He saw that it would 
he cruel, and indeed useless, to oppose her purpose, 
and so he used his honest endeavors only to bring the 
lovers together as speedily as possible. 

“ I will get a Continental time-table and find the 
readiest means of getting to Bruges, Dolly,” he said. 
“ Meanwhile, dear, prepare what things are necessary 
for your journey, and take some refreshment, for we 
may have to start soon.” 

They left Southampton by the night mail, and from 
Paris went on to Bruges with no more delay than the 
service of trains imposed. Arrived at their destina- 
tion, Gerard showed greater signs of fatigue from the 
long and continuous journey than Dorothy : he was 
unsupported by hope. 

Dorothy had never before seen Bruges ; the size of 
the city dismayed her. How was Josef to be found ? 
The telegram had given no address, and while they 
were seeking him he might be dying. They might in- 
quire at everyone of the hotels and not find him. The 
people were silent and uncommunicative, making it 
their boast that they minded their own affairs, and 
left their neighbors in peace to follow their own busi- 
ness without interference or inquiry. When they 
entered the town, the sleepy shopkeepers were putting 
up their shutters, the post-office was closed ; the city 
slept before their search had well commenced, and they 
were warned, as the carillon sounded from the tower of 
the halle, that they would be shut out in the street 
unless they returned to their hotel before the bells 
ceased. 

“ We can do nothing until the morning, Dolly,” 
said Gerard. “We should only exhaust ourselves to 
no purpose if we wandered about the streets all night. 
To-morrow we shall recommence our search with 
renewed vigor. We will telegraph to Josef’s father 
as soon as the post-office opens.” 

The following morning was spent in sending tele- 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


253 


grams and waiting for my reply. My surprise may be 
imagined when, coming home from giving a lesson to 
a pupil at Brixton, I found a telegram slipped under 
my door. 

It ran thus — 

“ From To 

Gerard Laxjnce, M. Benedick, 

Bruges. Nelson Square. 

“ Cannot find Josef ; send his address immediately.” 

My reply was brief — 

“ Poste Restante, Bruges, is the only address I know.” 

It was two o’clock when this reply was handed to 
those who waited in the bureau, eagerly catching the 
sounds of the electric instrument. 

Dorothy and Gerard left the office in silence, and 
paused upon the pavement outside, not knowing where 
to recommence their search. After a brief discussion, 
Gerard turned to the right and Dorothy to the left, and 
separately they wandered from street to street, making 
inquiries wherever there seemed the slightest pos- 
sibility of finding intelligence. At night they met 
again at their hotel, each with the same expression of 
blank disappointment. They ate their supper in silence, 
and, parting, retired to their rooms. Gerard threw him- 
self into a chair, and sought forgetfulness in a cigar 
and the book he had brought in the afternoon. 

While he was yet reading, he heard a hurried light 
step and a tap at his door. He took up the lamp, made 
his way through the maze of antique furniture that 
cumbered the old room, and, opening the door, found 
Dorothy standing there white and wide-eyed. She was 
dressed, and a white woolen shawl covered her head and 
throat. 

“ Come with me,” she said. “ Come quickly.” 

He followed her to her room, and the window which 
stood open at the further side, looking over the avenue 
of lime-trees. 


254 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ Listen,” she said, leaning forward. 

Gerard put his hands on the sill, and leant forward 
also. At first he distinguished no sound. Not a whisper- 
ing breeze disturbed tlie stillness that reigned over the 
slumbering city. He was about to change his position 
when Dorothy raised her finger, and at the same time 
his ear caught a faint, far-away note, supplicating and 
piteous as the cry of a forsaken child ; it rose again, and 
now his ear, quickened to catch the sound, followed the 
falling cadence. 

“ It is Josef that plays,” Dorothy said, in a voice 
scarcely above a whisper, while her senses yet strained 
to catch the distant note. 

The sound seemed to come from beyond the market- 
place. 

“ Put on your cloak, Dolly,” said Gerard. 

Dorothy obeyed quickly, and slipped the hood over 
her head. Gerard fetched his hat, and then, drawing 
the girl’s quivering arm through his, led her down the 
stairs. A light was burning in the vestibule below, and 
a fat maid-servant curled up in a corner of the high- 
backed settle by the chimney, slept as Flemish girls 
only can sleep. She was waiting for the return of the 
proprietor of the hotel, who was out to celebrate the 
return of an old friend in beer-drinking. Gerard un- 
fastened the ponderous bolts and locks, and slammed to 
the door when he and Dorothy stood in the street. The 
girl slept on. 

They passed from the main street, and turned down 
one of the tortuous narrow lanes leading to the market. 
Instinct seemed to direct Dorothy’s footsteps. She 
walked quickly and without hesitation along the un- 
known paths, unawed by the silence, the solitude, and 
the darkness. The shops were all closed and shuttered ; 
no light was to be seen in the windows of the several 
fioors that overhung the footway, and the lamps placed 
at long intervals shed a feeble light that left half the 
angles of the quaintly constructed old houses in ob- 
scurity. 

By the old tower they paused to listen. From the 
adjoining street there reached them the sound of voices 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


255 


singing a drinking chorus ; it came probably from the 
house where the party of beer-drinkers were celebrating 
their friend’s return. The chorus ended, and then 
followed a great chinking of glasses, and noisy applause, 
but as the noise subsided Gerard felt Dorothy’s hand 
close tightly on his arm, and above the sounds of jollity 
and merriment there rose quite near a plaintive strain 
so subtly sweet that it seemed rather the voice of a 
mourning spirit then the mere music from a violin. 

The drinking party was not silent. A monotone of 
conversation fell in a muffled murmur on the ear, broken 
ever and anon by the chinking of glasses, and burst 
of hoarse laughter ; but still unbroken the delicate 
stream of melancholy melody flowed on, as if the player’s 
thoughts were so removed from hare surroundings, so 
so high above all gross conditions that nothing could 
disturb them. It was the language of despairing love — 
language more powerful than any words — that told 
of that enduring agony which those alone are called 
upon to bear who love too well. 

No proof was needed to convince Dorothy who he 
was that played ; as she listened her spirit was exalted, 
and she was separated from him no longer. She saw 
him as clearly as though her eyes were resting upon 
him in open day. She saw him with his wan face and 
beautiful eyes revealing his soul to her. She made no 
attempt to move from the spot where she stood. She 
was not conscious that her hand was on Gerard’s arm, 
and that they stood in the open market-place. When 
Gerard looked towards her, he found a smile of ineffable 
tenderness and compassion upon her face. As for him, 
the ethereal music, contrasting with the ribald laughter, 
and the despairing tenderness of the strain, thrilled 
every nerve of his body, and despite his manhood tears 
of compassion flowed from his eyes for the sorrow of 
his rival. 

He was the first to look at the situation from a 
practical point of view. Whence came the music? 
It seemed to proceed from the same street as the 
revelry. He concluded it must be nearer to be heard 
so plainly above the other sounds, and ran his eye over 


256 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


the houses near him for a light to guide him further. 
The windows were all dark, but, looking up, his glance 
caught a movement of reflected light. Fixing his eyes 
intently, he detected in the obscurity a figure seated 
in the embrasure of an open window, some distance 
off. He fancied he could trace the man’s back resting 
against the window-sash, and as he watched he caught 
sight again of the thread of light, possibly reflected by 
the polished bow in some movement that caught a 
flickering ray. 

Presently the music ceased, and, with a deep-drawn 
sigh, Dorothy returned to a consciousness of her posi- 
tion. It was like awaking from a dream. She looked 
at Gerard for an instant in surprise, and then, lowly 
murmuring, she said : “ Take me to him — take me to 

him.” 

Gerard led her along the street. They were in deep 
shadow. As he drew nearer to the window, the figure 
moved away. With hesitation he crossed the street. 
Should he knock at the door, and ask if Josef lived in 
the house ? He was close by the threshold, when the 
door opened, and a man coming out, stopped close 
before them, and face to face. 

It was Josef Benedick. 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


257 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

THE ONLY ESCAPE. 

Josef it was, indeed; yet so altered that Gerard 
might have passed him by at another time, without 
recognizing him. But there was no alteration which 
Dorothy, in her long and constant meditation, had not 
expected to find. As she had seen him in imagination 
a few minutes before, she saw him now, haggard, 
weary, and wan. 

As he stood there, confounded by this unexpected 
meeting, she threw her arms about his neck with a 
sharp cry of joy, and, laying her cheek beside his, 
poured out her feelings in exclamations and broken 
sentences. 

“ My darling ! Oh, my love ! At last ! How I 
have waited and waited, longing to be with you again. 
And you are here, and we are together, close — heart 
to heart. You are found, oh, my darling! and we will 
part no more. ' Nothing can separate us, for we love, 
and that removes all barriers. Here — here is an end 
to our grief and sorrow. For you have suffered, I 
know. There are the traces in your poor face.” 

Josefs breath came short and quick, as if some vio- 
lent physical exertion taxed him. He could not speak 
as he held Dorothy to his heart, nor was it necessary 
that he should, for she still continued to murmur words 
of love and endearment until her voice grew feeble, 
and with a few choked words she fell to crying for 

joy- 

He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and gently 
wiped the tears from her cheeks as her head rested 
upon his shoulder. 


258 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


How pale and thin ! You are ill now, beloved one ! ” 
he said. “ You want rest. I will call the woman of 
the house.” 

“ No, no. Call no one. Let us be quite alone. Tam 
strong, very strong,” she replied. “ Let us walk along 
— just where you were going to walk. Let me hear 
you speak. 1 shall cry no more. Let me take your 
arm quite reasonably — so. Oh yes, hold my hand in 
yours ; now let us walk.” 

She had forgotten the existence of Gerard. He fell 
hack into the shadow, and they passed without notic- 
ing him, and followed the winding of the crooked 
street. 

I'hey walked on without speaking until they came 
to the low stone wall beside the river, where they sat, 
side by side. She was content to sit there, with her 
cheek against his shoulder, her hands in his. A smile 
of tranquillity and happiness dw^elt upon her face, and 
for a time, stilled Josefs tongue. How was he to 
shorten these moments of happiness ? — how was he to 
sunder himself from this loving soul, to disengage his 
hands from these clinging fingers, and bid her leave 
him to wander alone? Yet the separation must be 
made, and now% at once, for her sake. 

“ How did you come here ? ” he asked. 

“ I do not know, my darling. All the past is vague. 
Ah! Gerard brought me. He must be here. Yet I do 
not see him. That does not matter now,” and she 
pressed his hands closer. 

“ Did you know I was here ?” 

“Yes. And for long, long hours I have been seek- 
ing you in vain.” 

“ How did you learn I was here ? ” 

“ Your father sent me a telegram.” 

“ My father ! ” 

“ Yes. There is nothing strange in that ; he loves 
you, and knew how you must be suffering. Ilis name 
was not in the telegram, but I believe it was he. Who 
else could be so good ? ” 

“ Are you sure the message was not sent by Sebas- 
tian Fleming ? ” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


259 


“ I do not know. I never thought of his sending it. 
I mistrust him, and cannot think he would do any kind 
thing for me.” 

“ Nor I.” 

“ And yet if it was he who sent that message and 
brought us together ” 

“ That is no evidence of his kindness. If it had 
been for your good, my love, do you think that I should 
not have come to you ? ” 

She looked at him wonderingly. 

“ Do you think I should endure the misery of separa- 
tion willingly ? ” he asked. 

“ I do not know. You have not told me why you 
left me — but I do not ask.” 

“ But you have asked yourself the question, and 
answered it.” 

“Yes. I thought that before you knew me you had 
done something that you dared not ask me to forgive 
— not knowing how deeply I love you. But there is 
nothing, darling, that is not forgiven. Nothing I will 
not forgive. I do not ask you to tell me anythmg.” 

“ And you have not believed the motives that one 
might impute to me, leaving you so without a word of 
explanation, and on the eve of our wedding.” 

“ I have listened to no imputations. I could believe 
nothing against you, knowing that you love me. That 
condones all that may have happened before.” 

“ Did you not think me false — did you not think 
that the discovery of your loss of fortune changed my 
intention ? ” 

“ Oh no. How could I believe anything so silly? I 
believed that no motive actuated you that was not 
governed by your wish for my peace.” 

“ I wish it had been otherwise.” 

“ Would you have me think ill of you? ” 

“ Yes ; for then, after a brief pang of wounded pride, 
you would have discarded me from your mind, and 
ceased to love. It is love that makes separation so 
hard to bear.” 

“ But now the hardship is past, and the love re- 
mains.” 


260 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ Yes, the love remains ; still the necessity exists 
which forced me to leave you.” 

“ Have I not said that I ask for no explanation — that 
I forgive all that has passed, no matter what it was ? ” 

“ Alas ! no generous love of yours — no sacrifice that 
you can make — will enable me to marry you.” 

Dorothy was silent for a full minute, then she asked, 
with sudden apprehension — 

‘‘ Josef, is it that you already have a wife?” 

“ No,” he answered, asking his head. 

“Thank God! If that suspicion had crossed my 
mind, I should not be here now.” 

“ I would you had suspected that.” 

“ Are you sorry that I am here ? Oh, do not let me 
think that you have ceased to love me ! Cheer me a 
little while. Let me think that you love me still.” 

“ Darling, I love you dearer than my life.” 

“ Then why do you regret that I still love you ? ” 

“ Because the bitter grief of parting is to be borne 
again, and all our woes to be doubled.” 

“ Part again, my love ! Part ! ” Dorothy cried, as if 
the thought were impossible to entertain. 

“ We must part.” 

“ Oh, you are deceived. You fancy the di faculty 
greater than it is.” 

“ No, love.” 

“ Tell me what it is — if I must know — and trust to 
my woman’s wit to overcome it.” 

“ Only one person in the world can undo what is 
done.” 

“ Who is that? ” 

“ Sebastian Fleming?” 

“ That awful man ! What can he do ? ” 

“ Give back the paper I have signed. Listen, Doro- 
thy ; I will tell you what I may, and you shall guide 
me. The first time I saw you I loved you ; loved you 
hopelessly, aimlessly. I could not dream that I might 
one day dare to tell you of my love. I was but a poor 
musician, with nothing in the world but my violin. 
I was careless ; I did not care for money, or know the 
value of it until I saw you. What chance was there 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


261 


of our love ripening — I living in a garret, you in a 
palace ? They pointed you out to me for your riches 
and your diamonds, and Sebastian Fleming showed me 
the man to whom you were engaged. He told me what 
your eyes already had acknowledged — you loved me ; 
and then he asked, if loving me, you should be forced 
to marry the man you did not love. He pointed out 
how, but for my poverty, I might have made you my 
wife, and how impossible it was that such an union 
should be while we were unequal. He tempted me, 
with the promise of your hand, to sign a compact which 
placed me, after my wedding, at his mercy. I refused 
not for my own sake, but for yours. And I thought. 
If she loves me, my poverty will not deter her from 
becoming my wife.’ ” 

No, oh no ! ” exclaimed Dorothy. “ What does it 
matter whether we have money or none, so that we are 
inseparable.” 

“ But there were reasons for opposing our union. 
We knew each other but slightly then. A separation 
would have caused regret, but no distress which time 
would not remove. You would have forgotten me, and 
married Gerard Launce, and become a happy woman.” 

“ Oh no, no, no ! I could love no one as 1 love you ; 
I could not be happy without you.” 

“ He would have made you happier than ever I can 
make you. It is I who love you so dearly that say so of 
my rival. I see it now. Unhappily, I did not see it 
then ; and when he demanded that I should show my- 
self in a fit position to make you my wife, as the con- 
dition of permitting me to see you again, I yielded to the 
terrible temptation, and signed the compact with 
Sebastian Fleming. I did not know you then as I knew 
you later ; I did not love you then as I love you now, or 
1 should not have accepted his offer. I said to myself, 
‘ It will be no harder to part in twelve months from 
you than now, and all that time w^e shall be happy.’ I 
took the money from Sebastian Fleming, and I signed 
the stipulated paper. If I married you I should be at 
his mercy.” 


2 ( 3*2 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ But how could he sunder us ; how could he take you 
from me ? ” 

“ That I may not tell. All that I am permitted to 
reveal is, that the utmost forfeit a man can pay he 
could command me to make. I am bound by the most 
sacred promise to obey his will.” 

“ Oh, he would not exercise his power.” 

“So I believed until the moment I heard of Mr. 
Launce’s death. He also was at the mercy of Sebastian 
Fleming.” 

Dorothy sat mute with horror as she realized all 
that Josefs words suggested; then, raising her eyes 
to Josef, she said — 

“ I think I understand now. But is it possible that he 
should hate without a cause? He may have had some 
secret enmity against poor Mr. Launce ; but you have 
never offended him. What motive could he have in 
being cruel to you ?” 

“What motive had Nero for his cruelty? what 
motive have children for their wanton destruction ? 
what motive have madmen for the murders they com- 
mit ? ” 

“ You think him mad ? ” 

“ Yes ; but with a subtle cunning in his madness that 
defies conviction.” 

“ You surely are not bound to keep a promise exacted 
from you by a madman. Return the money he has 
given you, and be free.” 

Josef shook his head, and said, “I cannot.” 

“ I would do more than that for you,” Dorothy said. 
“ Do so much for my sake, or I shall think you love me 
slightly.” 

“ Be it so, Dorothy ; and yet I would have you pray 
me not to break my oath. Let me do it of my own free 
will, that when I hang my head in shame before an 
honest man, you may raise yours, and say, ‘ This 
perjurer’s shame is none of mine.’” 

“ Oh no, no, no ! Think my weak foolish words unsaid. 
It were worse than death to know that you had 
sacrificed your honor for my sake ! ” 

“ Better to part forever.” 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


263 


“Oh do not say that now,” she said, holding his 
hands still closer, as if to detain him. “ We must not 
think of separating ever again. Let us centre all our 
thoughts, dear love, upon a means of fixing for ever 
the bonds that unite us now. It should not be impos- 
sible to us, urged as we are by love and dread.” 

“ Alas ! what means can we devise that our thoughts 
have not already meditated and renounced?” 

“You cannot suffer unless you marry; that is a 
consideration that inspires hope. Why should we 
marry ? Is it not joy enough to sit as we sit now, hand 
in hand, and face to face ? What need have we of any 
other tie than that which links us now ? Our souls are 
wedded; that is enough. We are not animal, or gross 
in our natures. We can love until we die, in such 
purity as we have lived. Why should we not live 
together under the same roof, yet unmarried, as Gerard 
and I have lived ? ” 

“ You have not loved Gerard ; he is your brother.” 

“ Only in name. And is not our love a surety of our 
self-respect? Is not my honor dearer to you, your 
honor dearer to me, than if we did not love? ” 

“ Oh, Dorothy, we must not cheat ourselves with 
sweet illusions. Though our noblest resolutions were 
observed, the world would disbelieve us, and, pitying 
you, scorn me.” 

“ What does it matter what the world believes ? 
Why should we heed its pity, or its scorn, whilst no 
stain was on our souls, no reproach upon our con- 
science ? ” 

“ We cannot live in the world, and yet out of it. 
The most unmerited reproach has a sting for those 
who love us. Could you see me shunned by decent 
men and women, and not suffer? Our suspicious ears 
would catch the slightest whisper breathed against 
your fame ; we should read the signs of light regard 
in every furtive look ; we should mistrust the fidelity 
of those who were most kind, and turn away from 
them in anger ; and so, little by little, estrange our- 
selves from all mankind, sanctioning their doubts by 
our mistrust. We should lose the world’s esteem. 


264 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


and then our own. Without that a man, and still 
more a woman, were better dead than living.” 

Dorothy bowed her head. 

“ It is too true, my love,” she said. “ I am a fool, 
and suggest the silly notions of my troubled fancy. 
Indeed, I know not which way to turn. Oh, guide me, 
dearest — show me the escape ! Do not let me be taken 
from you.” 

He caught her passionately to his breast, and, bend- 
ing over her, said in a quick tremulous whisper — 

“ I know but one escape, my darling.” 

“ One ! It is enough,” she cried eagerly. “ What- 
ever you propose I will accept.” 

He rose, still holding her in his arms, and, turning 
round to the parapet on which they had been sitting, 
pointed to the dark river silently flowing to the sea. 
She shuddered and shrank back, as she caught the 
meaning of his sign. 

“ I know no happy ending of our love but that,” said 
Josef. 

She clung to him, trembling violently, but did not 
speak. 

“ What pain has death that we have not endured ? ” 
he said. “ What terror to compare with that of part- 
ing? Is there for us a greater joy than to die lips 
to lips, heart to heart, and suffer no pang of separa- 
tion ? ” 

“ None, ” she murmured. 

“ Then come, my darling ; come, where nothing can 
sunder us. Come to rest and peace for evermore.” 
He had set his foot upon the parapet. 

“ Do with me as you will,” she murmured. “ Take 
me in your beloved arms, and never sunder them 
again.” 

“ Never,” he answered. 


FOU LOVE AND HONOB. 


265 


CHAPTER XXXVn. 

THE LAST PARTING. 

As Josefs arm tightened around the girl’s body, and 
she felt herself raised from her feet, an awful sense 
of the act she had sanctioned by her own will and 
voice flashed upon her mind. In that moment she 
thought of Gerard, and the grief her loss would give 
him ; she thought of her God, and the presumptuous 
sin she committed in setting her own will above His, 
and destroying, for her own selflsh end, the life He 
had given her to use wisely and well ; and it was with 
some thought of revoking the decision she had made 
under the influence of mad, passionate despair, that 
she raised her voice to bid Josef stay. But her tongue 
failed her, her overtaxed strength gave way, she could 
not struggle, the objects around her grew faint and 
swam before her eyes, and with a second cry, feeble 
and plaintive, her head fell back inert and lifeless. 

Josef tottered on the parapet, the dead- weight hang- 
ing upon his arms, the nerveless body slipping from his 
grasp. By an effort he drew her up to him, and turned 
towards the water. 

Gerard had followed the lovers to the quay, and 
while they sat by the parapet he stood at some distance 
in the shadow of a timber-stack. He could but just 
descry their dark outline in the light which faintly 
illuminated the quay. The sound of their voices 
scarcely reached his ear. He did not wish to see more 
or hear their conversation. He was satisfled to per- 
form the duty which his deep and generous love 
imposed upon him — to guard Dorothy until she needed 
his guardianship no longer. A dull jealous envy of 
the man whom she preferred to him oppressed his 


266 FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 

heart ; he would not have been a man could he have 
stood there, within sight of his caressed rival, and not 
have felt jealous. At one moment this feeling became 
almost insupportable, and he feared that he must leave 
the spot ; but his love for Dorothy was stronger even 
than jealousy, and knowing that the lovers must part, 
he waited until Josef should bring her back to him, 
and resign her to his care. The time seemed inter- 
minable as he waited, and when at length he perceived 
a movement of the figures by the parapet, a sigh of 
relief escaped him. 

He expected that Josef would lead Dorothy back to 
the street where they had left him ; and, turning his 
face from the quay, he slowly paced towards the nar- 
row street from which they had come. Suddenly his 
step was arrested by the cry of Dorothy. He Avaited 
but an instant to be sure that his senses were not 
deceived ; and, as the second cry reached his strain- 
ing ear, he darted across the quay. In a fcAV brief 
moments he was by the parapet, arriving there at the 
very instant that Josef had succeeded in raising the 
supine figure of Dorothy to his level as he stood upon 
the top. 

“Would you do murder?” he cried, seizing Dorothy. 

“ Yes, upon you, if you do not let go. She has bid 
me hold her to the last, and I Avill.” 

“ Hold her, and fight for her ; use the strength and 
power you have to shield her, and to comfort her like 
a man, and I will help you. But, shirk the struggle 
like a coward, and use your power to make this girl a 
partner in your guilty death, and I will oppose you with 
every nerve and fibre of my body. Give her to me. You 
are no longer worthy to be trusted with such a precious 
treasure. Is no one to be thought of but yourself ; may 
not another take your place, and succeed Avhere you 
have failed ? Be a man, and you may Avin her 
yet ! ” 

Josefs hands relaxed as the consciousness of his 
selfish cowardice came to him. 

When Dorothy opened her eyes, she was in the 
hotel. She looked at the light npon the table near her, 


2(37 


LOVE AND HONOR. 

upon the hangings of the bed on which she lay, upon 
the curiously carved chimney-piece beyond, with that 
bewildered surprise which one feels in aw’akening, for 
the first time, in a strange room. A woman came to 
her side — it was the servant they had left sleeping 
in the vestibule when they went out to seek Josef. 
That recalled to her mind the events which had taken 
•place. The girl seeing her eyes open, spoke a few words ; 
and Gerard came to the bedside. 

“ Josef — where is he ? ” Dorothy asked. 

“ He is quite safe.” 

“ Oh, what have I done ? ” she cried, putting her hands 
up to her face. 

“ Nothing, Dolly — save that you fainted.” 

“ But I consented to the death — and bade him die with 
me. Did we sink ? ” 

“ No. The death you sought was the rash impulse 
of despair which he repented when reason returned to 
him.” 

“ Oh, thank God ! At the last moment I saw the 
folly and the crime of such an end ; but I could not 
speak to bid him release me.” 

“ It is nobler to fight than to fly. How do we know 
what Providence has fated for us ? A day may pro- 
duce changes that we cannot dream of. No suffering 
is without purpose, though our little vision may not see 
into it. To do what it is our duty to do, to strive and 
patiently endure — that is our lot.” 

“ Oh, help me to do right, my brother, for I am 
weak.” 

“ I will help you to grow strong, and then you cannot 
fall.” 

Dorothy was silent a moment ; then — 

“ Josef. He will not yield to that temptation, will he, 
Gerard dear ? ” 

“ Not again, Dorothy.” 

“ It was I who tempted him. He was wise and good, 
refusing the silly suggestions I made. Yet I would 
not let him leave me, and so prayed him to find a 
means of avoiding separation, that he was forced to 
yield to my weak desires. It is well I fainted. It 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


^G8 

lessened the pain of parting. Do you think that he 
and I will ever meet again ? ” 

“ It is not impossible. Time will remove the diffi- 
culties that now sunder you.” 

Dorothy did not speak for some moments. She was 
quite still and calm, lying there, with her hair, which 
had become unfastened, spreading like a glory about 
her delicate white face. Then she took Gerard’s hand, 
and said in that tone of awful conviction which in hap- 
pier moments Gerard had laughed at, for it generally 
accompanied some quaint, half-spiritual prophecy — 
“ Gerard dear, I believe that I shall never see Josef 
again.” 

There was a movement beyond the curtains like a 
stifled sob, and Josef, who had been sitting there, 
waiting for her return to life, moved quietly to the 
door. The sound attracted Dorothy’s attention, 

“ Where is Josef ?” she asked. 

The door opened and closed noiselessly. 

“ Gone away from us,” said Gerard. 


FOB LOVE AMD HONOR. 


269 


CHAPTER XXXYIII. 

DEALING WITH A MADMAN. 

Dorothy lay, for days, exhausted by the terrible 
anxiety she had endured. One morning, as she lay 
facing the open window through which she could see 
the first swallows fiitting over the limes, the servant 
entered the room, and said that a gentleman had called 
to her. 

“ What is his name ? ” she asked quickly. 

“ He sent this card.” 

Gerard rose from his seat by the window, where he 
had been reading aloud to Dorothy, and took the card 
from the servant. Glancing at it, he caught the 
name — 

“ Sebastian Fleming.” 

“ It is a mistake, Dolly,” he said, slipping the card 
in his pocket. “ The visitor is for me, not you. 
Will you excuse me?” 

The servant, not understanding English, could not 
contradict the statement, and Dorothy acquiescing, 
Gerard descended to the salon. 

He found Sebastian Fleming seated in a chair, his 
chin resting on the crutch of his stick, his eyes meet- 
ing him with that same vulturine expression he had 
seen in them the first time they met. The old man 
made a sign to his two servants, and they withdrew, 
closing the door behind them. 

“ I am glad to see you, Mr. Gerard — I am glad to 
see you,” said Sebastian Fleming ; “ and I am pleased 
to notice that you are as strong and healthy as ever.” 

“ There is no necessity for any compliment between 
us,” said Gerard stiffly. “ I have told you that I 
attribute my uncle’s death, and also my father’s, to 
your malign infiuence over them, and that should 


270 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


sufi&ce to put an end to all communication between us.” 

“ On the contrary, it increases my interest in you.” 

Gerard waved his hand impatiently, and asked 
brusquely — 

“ Will you be good enough to say why you have 
called here?” 

“ 1 have seen Josef Benedick, and since seeing him 
I have obtained an interview with Dr. Wanzel and 
the accounts they have given of Miss Gordon’s condi- 
tion make me anxious to see that beautiful young lady 
before the physician’s fears are realized.” 

“ What fears do you refer to ? ” Gerard asked in 
alarm. 

“ The fear that Miss Gordon will die.” 

“ He has hinted no such fear to me.” 

“ Possibly he thought it would do his patient no 
good to tell you that. You are impulsive and affec- 
tionate; Miss Gordon is intelligent, and she would read 
her doom in your expressive face. That is my sup- 
position.” 

“ And what good will it do his patient to tell you 
this ?” 

“ The only good it is possible for her to receive. Let 
me set the facts out clearly, that you may judge for 
yourself — that you may judge for yourself. Hearing 
that I was in Bruges, Josef Benedick called upon me. 
Josef Benedick is a very beautiful young man, and I 
have not the slightest animosity towards him ; and it 
caused me some sort of regret to see that he was so 
greatly changed for the worse. His eyes were red and 
puffy from weeping ; his nose swollen, and his cheek 
yellow — altogether he looked quite plain — absolutely 
plain. He told me that he has been driven by despair 
to such a point of madness as to attempt suicide, and he 
added that under the same despondency Miss Gordon 
was reduced to a state of dangerous illness. He gave 
me these facts in order that T might be moved by pity 
to restore a certain paper which he signed and gave into 
my possession some' seven or eight months since. To 
assure myself that his report of Miss Gordon’s condition 
was not false, for young men in love are apt to exagger- 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR, 


271 


ate, I asked the name of the doctor attending upon 
Miss Gordon, and without delay called upon Dr. Wan- 
zell. To show that I was actuated by some deeper in- 
terest than mere idle curiosity, I first of all placed, the 
fee for consultation before him. I then told him that 
I was deeply concerned in Miss Gordon’s welfare, and 
desired to know the extent of the danger in which she 
lay, adding that my unlimited wealth placed me in a 
position to obtain anything essential to her recovery. 
‘ Sir,’ he replied, ‘ if your wealth can enable you to ex- 
cite in that young lady a strong desire to live, you may 
restore her to health ; but without that, and in her pres- 
ent condition of despondency she can scarcely outlive 
the summer.’ This, Mr. Gerard, partly explains my visit 
— partly exphiins my visit.” 

The doubt which had so frequently presented itself 
to Gerard’s mind, and which he had banished, to the 
prejudice of Sebastian Fleming, returned again to him 
now, and looking at the expressionless old man, he 
asked himself — 

“ Is this man good or bad?” 

“ Did you come here expecting to see Miss Gordon ? ” 
he asked. 

“No. I concluded that she would refuse to see me, 
and that you would meet me instead.” 

“ Then the object of your visit was to see me ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then why did you send up your card to Miss Gor- 
don?” 

“ Because, had I sent it to you, I should in all prob- 
ability have received a message by the servant to the 
effect that you declined to see me. By the plan I 
adopted I liave been able to show you that I am neces- 
sary to ]Miss Gordon’s recovery, and with that knowl- 
edge you cannot withdraw before you have heard all 
what I have to say.” 

“ I will listen to you.” 

“ Thank you. Can you tell me if we are secure from 
interruption here ? ” 

“ Quite. No one comes into this room during the 
morning.” 


272 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ Then I advise you to take a seat. I have a good 
deal to say, and it is necessary that you should he at 
your ease, and maintain perfect self-command.” 

Gerard seated himself reluctantly, as a man accept- 
ing advic.e from one he dislikes. Sebastian Fleming 
watched his movements as a cat follows the motions of 
a bird, and did not speak until he was seated. 

“ You are convinced, Mr. Gerard, I have no doubt, 
that Miss Gordon’s illness arises from the separation I 
have caused between her and Josef Benedick.” 

“ Yes. I have no doubt as to the origin of her un- 
happiness.” 

“ You are also convinced that her recovery depends 
upon Josef being at liberty to marry her.” 

“ That remains to be seen.” 

“ That remains to be seen, as you very justly remark. 
Let me see, the month is now April — IVIay, June, July ; ” 
he counted the months on his fingers. “There are 
three months, ]Mr. Gerard, for you to see whether she 
will recover or not.” 

“ I meant that I should know by what I learn from. 
Dr. W anzell in our next interview.” 

“That is different. Wq Avill take it for granted that 
he has not lied to me and will not lie to you. We 
will suppose that you are perfectly satisfied that Miss 
Gordon will not outlive the summer unless Josef 
Benedick is at liberty to marry her.” 

“Well, go on.” 

“Josef was candid enough to tell me that he had 
given you his reason for breaking off his engagement 
with Miss Gordon. You know, therefore, that while I 
hold a certain written promise of his he will not marry 
her?” 

“ Yes, I know that. But I do not know the penalty 
he would suffer by marrying her.” 

“ No. I assured myself of Josefs strong sense of 
honor before I trusted him, and he is under promise 
not to reveal the condition to which he would be liable.” 

“ It is unnecessa ry to dwell upon this.” 

“ I am not of your opinion. I want you to realize 
fully the position that these facts substantiate. I must 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR, 273 

bring you to admit that Miss Gordon will die in three 
months unless a certain paper in my possession is given 
up to Josef Benedick.” 

“ You infernal villain ! ” Gerard cried, half rising from 
his chair, while his fingers twitched as if they were 
clutching Fleming’s withered throat; “to sit there 
gloating over the approaching death of the sweet girl 
you have struck down with misery ! I am tempted to 
choke the life out of your vile body, and that way end 
the wretchedness you make.” 

“ Be calm, Mr. Gerard. If I had feared your violence 
I should have taken better precautions for my own 
safety. Gentlemen do not commit murder, and you do 
not know that my death even would free Josef Bene- 
dick from the obligation he is under. You are wrong 
to be angry. Examine all that has been done, and you 
can find no proof of villainy against me. An impartial 
judge would see nothing in the stipulation I have im- 
posed but a safeguard against an unhappy mar- 
riage.” 

Say what you have to say, but for God’s sake do 
not remind me of what that unhappy girl suffers, or I 
shall lose my self-control.” 

“Now you are reasonable. I will endeavor to excite 
you as little as possible. I only wish you, as I said, to 
realize Miss Gordon’s actual position.” 

“ I kno^ it but too well, poor soul.” 

“ That being so, I propose that you shall save her.” 

“ Save her ! ” Gerard gasped, looking at Sebastian 
Fleming with incredulity. 

The old man never relaxed a muscle, nor showed a 
single sign of feeling. His face was entirely without 
expression, save that habitual look of malicious mirth, 
which was the simple result of physical peculiarity and 
the death-like contraction of his cheeks from the pro- 
truding facial bones. 

“Are you in earnest?” Gerard asked, in a tone of 
incredulity. 

“You shall see. Bring two sheets of paper, and a 
pen.” 

Gerard obeyed, in, wondering silence. When he 
18 


274 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


brought the writing materials to the table, Sebastian 
Fleming said — 

“Now write to Josef the words I dictate. Address 
your letter to him.” 

Gerard dipped his pen in the ink, headed the letter, 
and looked up for instructions. 

“ Write these words,” said Sebastian Fleming. “ ‘ Re- 
turn at once and make Dorothy Gordon your wife, with- 
out fear for the future. The bond given to Sebastian 
Fleming was, as you supposed it to be, a test of your 
fidelity. Now that we are convinced your love is earn- 
est and deep, the bond is no longer necessary, and you 
have only to give life and happiness to her who, with- 
out you, would die. To prove the sincerity of this 
statement, Sebastian Fleming will put his hand to this 
paper, which shall serve you as an acquittance of all 
moral and pecuniary obligations to him.’ Have you 
written that ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Sign it.” 

Gerard wrote his name. 

“ Now give me the paper and pen.” 

Gerard place the paper before Sebastian Fleming, 
and placed the pen in his fieshless fingers. Then, with 
increasing astonishment, he saw the old man slowly 
write his name at the foot of the page, after carefully 
reading over what he had dictated. 

“ Address an envelope,” said Sebastian Fleming, as 
he blotted and proceeded to fold the letter. 

Gerard took an envelope, wrote the name of Josef 
Benedick, then paused, and, looking up, said — 

“ I do not know where Josef has gone.” 

“ I do. The boy has left Bruges, and awaits my 
answer to his appeal for mercy.” 

“ Will you take it to him ? ” 

“We shall see. Are you satisfied, Mr. Gerard, up 
to this point?” He asked the question, holding the 
letter, which he had closed, in one hand, and drawing 
the edge from end to end between the claw-like nails 
of the other. 

“I am confounded with astonishment. It has been 


FOB LOVE AKL HONOB. 


275 


suggested to me that your motive was simply to 
provide for Miss Gordon’s security ; but I could not 
believe it. This act places you in a different light, and 
I admit with pleasure, and yet with regret, that I have 
mistaken your character.” 

He held out his hand frankly, but Sebastian Fleming, 
instead of taking it, waved his hand, and said — 

“ Not so fast, Mr. Gerard. It is possible you mistake 
my motive now as much as when you meditated stran- 
gling me a few minutes since — strangling me a few 
minutes since. Josef Benedick is at this moment in 
another part of the world. This letter must be taken 
to him without delay.” 

“ I will start at once.” 

“ No, you must stay by Miss Gordon until he arrives 
to take your place. I alone can give this letter to him.” 

“ How long will that take ? ” 

“ Travel as fast as I may I shall not find him in less 
than two days ; it will be as many before he will return 
here. Four days, however, will not make much differ- 
ence and with the hope which you will be able to give 
Miss Gordon, she will survive the suspense — she will 
survive the suspense.” 

The old man repeated these words again and again, 
until the repetition grew faint and indistinct ; he kept 
his eyes fixed upon Gerard the whole time, and his 
fingers never ceased to manipulate the letter. He 
looked so weird and unnatural, this little old gro- 
tesquely hideous man, so devoid of emotion or any 
obvious attribute of affection or reason, as to recall to 
Gerard’s mind that doubt of his perfect sanity which 
Brooke had long ago suggested. As Sebastian Fleming 
seemed to have forgotten the existence of the very man 
he was looking at, Gerard said — 

“ It is a pity you allowed Josef Benedick to go away 
if you intended to release him so speedily.” 

“ If 3^ou played chess, young gentleman, you would 
never make a move until you had made sure of your 
cover,” replied Sebastian Fleming. He placed the letter 
in an inner pocket, and continued : “ Having settled 
how Miss Gordon’s life is to be saved, we come now 


276 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


to the price you must pay for her life. There is yet 
a clean sheet of paper to be written on.” 

“ What price do you wish me to pay ? ” 

“You must bequeath to me the whole of your 
property, to be given as a legacy to me at your death, 
in return for the service I render you.” 

“ Are you serious ? ” 

“ Perfectly. Why do you doubt it ? ” 

“ Because the probabilities are against your receiving 
anything. It is not likely you will outlive me.” 

“ I may.” 

“ That is true. I agree willingly to your proposal. 
Dictate the terms, and I will w*rite them on this sheet 
of paper.” 

“ There is no need of formal wording or witnessing. 
Write: ‘ I give my most sacred word and promise to 
make Sebastian Fleming my sole legatee in the event 
of my death, by whatever cause that may result.’ Do 
you understand, so far, Mr. Gerard ? ” 

“ Perfectly. I shall make a will to that effect, to- 
day.” 

“Not too fast. You can have the will drawn up 
when you please, but you had better not sign it until 
my part of the contract is performed.” 

“Very good. Is that all you wish me to write?” 

“Not quite. Take another dip of ink.” 

“ I am ready.” 

“ Then write ; ‘ And I promise', by all considerations 
of truth and honor that constitute me a gentleman, 
in return for those services by which Sebastian Fleming 
is to save the life of my step-sister, Dorothy Gordon, to 
place him in possession of my estate, through my last 
will and testament, at any date which may suit his 
pleasure.” 

As Gerard heard the completion of this sentence, 
the pen slipped from his fingers. 

“ Good God ! what do you mean ? ” he exclaimed, 
looking up from the half- written promise. 

“ It means that you will give your life to save that 
of the girl you love.” 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 277 

“ That is, that at a certain date fixed by you, I am to 
commit suicide.” 

“ At a certain date — if I choose to fix one — you will 
die. That is it.” 

“ Why this is monstrous — unheard of.” 

“ Look at the agreement in its worst form. I do not 
wish you to give your promise without fully under- 
standing that you may he called upon to execute it.” 

“It is monstrous. You seek to test my love as you 
tested Josefs.” 

“ I do not say so. I do not wish to entrap you by 
hints or suggestions. I do not wish you to cheat 
yourself into false hopes that may justify you in re- 
pudiating your bond if you are called upon to render it.” 

“I can scarcely believe what I hear. You desire me 
to promise that I will commit suicide at any date 
fixed by you.” 

“ I demand that promise as the price of delivering 
this letter to Josef Benedick.” 

“ And for the sake of the few thousands of pounds I 
leave behind me — it is ridiculous. Why I will give 
you every penny I possess at this very moment, if that 
is all you require.” 

“ I do not say that your money is all that I require. 
Certainly I refuse to accept that payment for my serv- 
ices. I demand life for life.” 

“ And if I give my life, as you propose, what good 
will that do you ? ” 

“You might as well ask what good your fortune 
will do me, seeing that I have already more money 
than I know what to do with.” 

Gerard regarded Sebastian Fleming in a kind of 
stupefaction. 

“You must have some motive,” he said, after a 
while. 

“I do not see the necessity; however, since you 
attach so much importance to it, why not find one 
from the many which should suggest themselves to 
your active mind ? ” 

“ I can imagine none, except it be to test my affection 
for Dorothy.” 


278 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ Well, there is one ; but there are others less flatter- 
ing to me, but equally worthy of consideration. We 
all have a greed for something — one for fame, another 
for ease, and so on. I am no exception. My greed 
for money is satisfied; yet I must still greed. Why 
should I not set all my hopes upon obtaining your de- 
struction, just as, in a game of chess, I centre all my 
energies upon mating my adversary’s king? That 
is one hypothesis, and not an unreasonable one. You 
know that I am an ardent chess-player ; why should 
not the game be played upon a higher scale ? If that 
motive is not sufiicient explanation, take another. 
Suppose that I have Corsican blood in my veins, and 
can nurse vengeance in my heart until the last of my 
enemy’s line is vanquished under my hand. That is 
scarcely so tenable an idea as the former ; but we 
might yet find another. Suppose that I am a mono- 
maniac — that I am mad upon one subject, as nearly 
every one is, in a larger or smaller degree — and that 
destructiveness is the form of madness which distin- 
guishes me. Take it that I have sufiicient foresight, 
wisdom, cunning — what you will — to guard myself 
from imprisonment as a dangerous maniac by making 
my victims the martyrs of their own free-will, and 
you have an explapation of all that perplexes you. I 
offer these suggestions that you may not belled to 
pledge yourself to the fulfilment of a promise vdiich I, 
from mercy or any other cause, may not call upon you 
to perform. Think yourself dealing with an incurable 
madman, but understand that the promise you give 
him is with the full knowledge of your liability and 
his unalterable nature. Recognize that, mad, iniqui- 
tous, damnable as I may be, the promise given to me 
must be as binding upon you as though it were made 
to the man or woman you most reverence.” 

“ If I thought otherwise I should not hesitate to 
make the promise.” 

“ I know it. If you were not a man of unimpeachable 
honor, I should not be such a fool as to give you the 
chance of cheating me.” 

He was silent, while Gerard, turning from him, bent 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


279 


his brows, and revolved the awful proposal made to 
him. 

“ Well ?” Sebastian Fleming said, after waiting some 
moments. 

“ Supposing I refuse to accept your offer?” 

“ Then, if Dr. Wanzell is to be trusted. Miss Gordon 
will die. I say nothing of Josef Benedick’s fate. You 
can have little compassion for him, albeit he would now 
have been Miss Gordon’s husband, and both would 
have been happy but for you.” 

“ But for me ?” 

“ Yes. You forced him to accept my assistance by 
demanding from him a fortune such as he could not 
pdssibly get without it.” 

“ And it was by such subtle villainy you brought my 
uncle — aye, perhaps my own father — to destroy them- 
selves.” 

“If they destroyed themselves in consequence of 
dealing with me, you may be certain it was, as we 
commercial men would say, ‘ for value received.’ I did 
not hoodwink them, any more than I blind you to the 
results of your own act. And if you see in their 
deaths the result of a bad bargain with me, you will 
do well to reflect upon my proposal before accepting 
it.” 

“ I will never accept. It is a crime that you would 
have me promise to commit.” 

“ It is a question of terms. Men have given their 
lives for meaner ends, and been numbered amongst the 
ranks of heroes for their folly. You do well not to 
give an immediate consent. Think it over, and if you 
decide to save Miss Gordon’s life, ask me to assist you. 
I am staying at the Hotel de France. Shall I call my 
servants ? ” 

“Wait,” cried Gerard, stung to desperation by this 
reference to Dorothy. “ Why should I not expose this 
villainous proposal, and the means by which you have 
destroyed Stephen Launce ? Supposing we turn tlie 
tables, and I make silence the price of Josef Benedick’s 
liberty ? ” 

“You are excited, and do not know what rubbish 


280 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


you talk. Is it likely that I should agree to yield to 
your wishes under the pressure of such a futile threat ? 
If you told all the world what you and I know, who 
would believe you ? They could say that you were 
mad, not I ; and a simple denial from me would be suf- 
ficient to convict you. And if you proved me mad, how 
would that save Miss Gordon’s life? Be calm, Mr. 
Gerard ; and if you can imagine any method of giving 
back to Miss Gordon the love and happiness you have 
been instrumental in taking away, do so ; then will be 
the time to think of exposing my madness.” 

He struck the table with the head of his stick, and 
his servants entered the room. 


FOB LOVE AND HON OB. 


281 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 
doeothy’s demand. 

“Who could want to see Gerard?” Dorothy asked 
herself, when she was left alone. Gerard had given 
himself up entirely to her of late, and she knew of no 
friends or acquaintance of his likely to be in Bruges. 
Her thoughts continually dwelling upon Josef, she 
naturally suspected that the visitor was in some way 
connected with him. Could it be possible, she wondered, 
that Josef himself, unable to support separation, had 
returned to seek her ; and had Gerard, to avoid another 
painful scene, concealed the fact from her? While 
this question was yet agitating her, the servant who 
had brought up the card entered the room, bringing 
the medicine sent by Dr. Wanzell. 

“ Where is Mr. Launce ? ” asked Dorothy. 

“ In the salo7i with the gentleman who called to see 
you, miss.” 

“ Are you sure that you are not mistaken ? Did he 
not call to see Mr. Launce ? ” 

“ I am not wrong, miss. For he first asked after 
your health ; and then desired me to carry his card to 
you. He did not mention Mr. Launce’s name.” 

“ Did you notice what kind of gentleman he was ? ” 
Dorothy asked, with trembling voice. 

“ A little old gentleman, miss, with beautiful rings on 
his fingers ; and the dreadfullest ugly face in the world.” 

Dorothy put no further questions, though the servant, 
anxious to satisfy her own curiosity, showed a dispo- 
sition to enter more fully into the subject. Dorothy 
knew from the little she had heard that the visitor 
must be Sebastian Fleming, and this knowledge gave 
rise to a new group of speculations. 

His connection with Josef, and the events which had 


282 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


lately transpired, suggested that his visit related to 
her rather than to Gerard. He might have come to 
tell her of Josefs release ; or, if he had no mercy in his 
soul, to tell her that Josef had ended his misery by that 
death which he had asked her to share. It was with a 
terrible conflict of hope and fear in her bosom that she 
awaited Gerard’s return. By his face she expected to 
read Josefs fate. At length Gerard entered the room. 

He purposely averted his eyes, for fear that Dorothy 
might discover in them the trouble he was in, otherwise 
he would have seen with what anxiety Dorothy looked 
at him. In his silence she discovered that he had no 
joyful news to give. Yet she still hoped, if not for the 
best, at least that the worst had not happened. 

“ Your visitor has gone, Gerard ? ” she asked timidly. 

“Yes, Dolly, yes,” Gerard murmured, with assumed 
indifference. 

“ The servant was wrong then ; he did not come to 
see me ? ” 

“ He came to see me, Dolly, and not you.” 

His was the truth, and yet not the truth ; and Doro- 
thy, who had never known Gerard to say a false word, 
felt that some terrible necessity forced him to deny 
that which the servant had conflrmed. It was some 
time before she could muster up sufficient courage to 
speak again. 

“ The visitor had no bad things to tell, dear ! ” she 
said in a tone of inquiry. 

“ No, Dolly.” 

“ No fresh misfortune has befallen poor Josef ? ” 

“ No, dear.” 

He said this looking her full in the face, and with 
firm assurance in his voice. 

Dorothy breathed a deep sigh of relief, and, holding 
her hand out to Gerard said : 

“ I don’t want to know more, Gerard ; only I was 
afraid.” 

He pressed her hand, and, looking into her thin sweet 
face in silence, asked himself wffiy he should not make 
one last sacrifice for her, and end her troubles and his 
own. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


2bS 

It was a great temptation to him to yield to that 
desire, but a manly and essentially English sentiment 
of endurance overcame the inclination. He turned from 
the contemplation of the unhappy girl with a determi- 
nation to hold out until the last, to fight until every 
hope of victory was gone, and yield only when resist- 
ance would be fatal to Dorothy. 

When Dr. Wanzell called, he took him into the salon, 
and asked him if the statement made by Sebastian 
Fleming as to Dorothy’s peril was true or false. 

“ What Mr. Fleming has told you,” said the doctor, 
“ is perfectly true. When a statement of danger can 
do no good, it is best not made — it increases rather 
than lessens the peril; and Miss Gordon’s recovery 
depends almost entirely upon the hope and the belief 
that she will live. When Mr. Fleming assured me 
that he was in a position to give my patient all that 
would make life dear to her, I did not hesitate to tell 
him that the moment for supplying that want was 
come, and must not be delayed.” 

“ You are yourself certain that, without this induce- 
ment to live, Miss Gordon will not outlive the sum- 
mer.” 

“ I am morally certain that she cannot.” 

“Shall you object to meet another xfiiysician and 
consult with him upon this case?” 

“None whatever. The best authority for cases of 
this kind is Dr. Wolff, of Baden. In your place I 
should write and beg him to come to Miss Gordon.” 

Gerard telegraphed the same day to Dr. Wolff, and 
received a reply saying that the johysician accepted the 
invitation, and might be expected on Sunday morning 
— it was then Friday. 

On Saturday, when Gerard had left Dorothy asleep, 
and gone out to get an hour’s exercise, the servant 
whom he had ordered to watch Dorothy until his re- 
turn, first watched him out of sight, then proceeded 
to wake the sleeper by those ingenious devices of slam- 
ing doors, and knocking furniture about, which seem 
known to the servants of every nation. Dorothy opened 
her eyes, and moved ; the girl came to her side with 


284 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


an air of demure simplicity, and, handing a letter, 
said — 

“ A messenger has just delivered this letter for you, 
miss.” 

Dorothy took the letter, which was plainly addressed 
to her, but in an unknown hand. She opened it quickly, 
and read the enclosed note, which bore neither address 
nor signature. It ran thus — 

“ One who most earnestly desires to see you restored 
to health and happiness has offered Mr. Gerard Launce 
the means of releasing Josef Benedick from the obli- 
gations which preclude his union with you. Discover 
the accuracy of this statement, and judge what motive 
Mr. Launce has in preferring the assistance of a physi- 
cian.” 

“ Who brought this letter ? ” Dorothy asked, her 
eyes yet expanded with the astonishment caused by 
the strange communication she had read. 

“ The servant of the gentleman who called yesterday 
to see you, miss. He said there was no answer, and he 
went away. That is all, miss.” 

The girl did not mention the fact that the servant 
had given her ten francs to deliver the letter in Mr. 
Launce’s absence, and conceal the condition. 

“ You may leave the room. I want nothing,” Doro- 
thy said, wishing to be alone. 

She had no doubt as to the authorship of this anony- 
mous letter, and she held Sebastian Fleming in due 
contempt for the treacherous blow aimed at Gerard. 
She determined to destroy the letter, and take no more 
notice of its contents than if it had never been written. 
Nevertheless, she read the words over again before 
lighting the taper by her bedside, to burn the letter ; 
and after it was reduced to ashes her mind refused to 
discard the thoughts it had invoked. She did not for 
a moment entertain the idea of testing the truth of the 
anonymous assertion. It was unnecessary. She was 
willing to grant that Sebastian Fleming had made some 
proposal for Josefs, release, but.she.ti’usted so im- 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


285 • 


plicitly in Gerard’s honor and love, as to feel that his 
refusal was based entirely upon consideration for her 
welfare. Yet, notwithstanding this firm belief, the 
suspicion which Sebastian Fleming had sought to con- 
vey unavoidably crept into her mind. 

“ It is natural that he would wish us not to meet 
again,” she thought. “ He may think it best for both. 
He has reasons, perhaps, to doubt Mr. Fleming’s word, 
and fear another dreadful parting. Perhaps he thinks 
that now the worst is past, better things may come. I 
have suffered the heaviest blow that could fall upon 
me, and still I live ; with the aid of physic I may grow 
well, and so forget my loss as to think of gain. Like 
a young widow, I may dry my eyes and smile upon 
another lover. That must be Gerard’s hope — loving 
me as he does. Poor Gerard ! he forgets that rny soul 
is wedded, and that while Josef lives I can think of 
him only, and look upon another love as shameful 
infidelity.” 

And thus, in excusing Gerard, she accused him, and 
the intended mischief was done. 

She did not say a word to Gerard of what had hap- 
pened when he returned. It would have involved an 
explanation which he had good reason to avoid; it 
would give him unnecessary pain ; it could lead to no 
good result, since his manly disposition would not 
brook the guidance of a surreptitious enemy, nor per- 
mit him to alter a decision made in the conscientious 
belief of his own sense of right. She wished that all 
should be as if that venomous letter had not been. But 
she felt constrained by the hidden knowledge ; she 
could not regard him with the same implicit confidence 
she had felt hitherto, and unconsciously she put him 
to the proof she wished to avoid . 

In the evening he thought it advisable to tell her 
that he had sent for Dr. Wolff, of Vienna, and so con- 
firm the suspicion engendered by the letter ; later on 
he talked of buying a yacht when she grew stronger, 
and taking her for a cruise in the Mediterranean if she 
felt that she would like the change, showing clearly 
that he had matured plans for the future which were 


286 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR, 


to bring her closer to him, and remove her farther from 
Josef. 

The next day Dr. Wolif came, and treated her as 
though she were a spoilt child, who must he coaxed 
and scolded out of a perverse habit. He told her she 
had nothing the matter with her, and that if she would 
only be a sensible young lady, and try to get well as 
quickly as possible, she would soon be able to do with- 
out nasty physic. 

On quitting his patient, the great physician had a 
private interview with Dr. Wanzell, and then he met 
Gerard, and stated the result of his consultation. 

“ Sir,” he said, “ this is a case in which medicine 
can do little or nothing. Change, variety, amusement, 
fresh air, and good diet are all I can prescribe. The 
young lady must be aroused from the torpor into which 
she has sunk, or she will die from inanition. If she 
were my child I should send her to a German farm- 
house, where she would have to work with the other 
members of the family, or place her among healthy, 
strong young folks of her own age, who would laugh at 
her and ridicule the romantic fancies to which she 
has abandoned herself. I quite agree with Dr. Wanzell 
in his view of the case and in his treatment.” 

Gerard did not oppose Dr. Wolff’s argument. He 
was too deeply disappointed to take notice of the mis- 
take he made in his conclusions respecting the cause 
of Dorothy’s prostration. He paid the fee, and returned 
with a heavy heart to Dorothy’s side. He found her 
in a mood which was new to him. The physician’s 
tone had exasperated her, and she with difficulty con- 
cealed her irritation. 

“ What has he said to you?” she asked of Gerard. 

“ Nothing that Wanzell has not already said, dear.” 

“ Why did you send for him ? ” 

“ Because I doubted Wanzell’s ability, and this man 
is said to be the ablest physician for cases of your 
kind ? ” 

“ Then having consulted the best authority, you 
will not seek for further medical assistance ? ” 

“ I am not satisfied with either Wanzell or Wolff. 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


287 


They gauge your condition by their knowledge of girls 
different to you. When you are a little stronger, dear, 
we will go back to England, and obtain the guidance 
of some one who will understand you better.” 

“ Why should you trouble yourself or any one for me ? 
This doctor tells you that there is nothing the matter 
with me. Let me get over my silly weakness as I 
may.” 

Gerard did not answer. He gave a quick glance at 
Dorothy, and a look of trouble fell upon his face. It 
seemed to her that his silence and expression of pain 
were signs of impatience, and perhaps anger. He also 
might regard her as a wilful silly child exaggerating her 
own sufferings to excite pity. 

“ Be patient with me yet a little longer, Gerard,” 
she said. “ You have endured much, but you will for- 
give me all when I am no more.” 

“ Dorothy,” he said, in a tone of remonstrance. 

Instantly touched with self-reproach, Dorothy put 
her thin hands over her face and burst into tears. 
Her weakness touched him to the heart. He bent over 
her, resting his hand upon her beautiful hair. 

“ Darling little sister,” said he, “ what have I done 
to grieve you ? ” 

“ Nothing, nothing! ” she replied. “ You have been 
more faithful and loving than any brother could be. 
I am ungrateful and exacting. Disregard my petu- 
lance, and bear with me a little longer.” 

“You have exacted nothing. All that you can ask 
falls short of my desire to give.” 

She looked up into his face, and saw there an expres- 
sion of such real, earnest love and entire truth, that 
she could not doubt his word. 

“ Do you doubt me ? ” he asked, catching her sig- 
nificant glance. 

“ No, dear,” she answered. 

“ Then tell me what you would have me do ? ” 

She paused a moment, while her lips trembled as 
though she dared not utter the wish within her heart. 

“ Speak, Dolly dear,” he said. 

She put her hand up, and drew his face towards hers ; 


288 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


thoughts whirled tumultuously through her mind ; her 
heart beat violently; she scarcely knew what she was 
doing, and yet she felt herself supported by reason. 
Why should she by silence encourage Gerard to think 
that she should grow out of her love for Josef? 
Would it not be more cruel to foster this hope of one 
day making her his wife than to demand that present 
sacrifice which would terminate suspense not less than 
the sufferings of herself and Josef ? 

Again Gerard bade her speak. 

“ Bring my lover back to me,” she whispered, her 
cheek touching his. 

“ I will, darling,” he answered gravely, as if he had 
anticipated the demand. 

And then he kissed her, and left the room rapidly. 


FOB LOVE AND HONOB. 


289 


CHAPTER XL. 

DE SPAIR. 

In the moment after the door closed behind Gerard, 
Dorothy perceived the grave error into which her 
weakness had betrayed her. 

“ I have desired him to bring Josef to me,” she said to 
herself. “ I have bidden him to prove the fidelity and 
depth of his affection for me, by doing at my desire 
the thing which he had deliberately declined to do — 
if the evidence of that letter is to be trusted. What 
will be the result? To restore Josef he must free him 
from the obligation he is under to Sebastian Fleming. 
For Gerard’s love alone would prevent him from bring- 
ing back Josef while the condition still existed which 
would render another separation inevitable. To free 
Josef, Gerard must give something more valuable than 
my life, otherwise Sebastian Fleming would not have 
offered him the means of doing so when that return 
depended alone upon his will. What could he demand 
that Gerard declined to give? Money? No. He 
would not have hesitated to beggar himself even for 
my sake. There is but one condition which Gerard 
could refuse, and that is that he should change places 
with Josef, and place himself at the mercy of Sebas- 
tian Fleming ; and this I have driven him to do.” 

As this reflection occurred to her she raised herself 
suddenly upon her pillow and called Gerard, repeat- 
ing her cry again and again without listening for 
response. Hut the door did not open, and when from 
exhaustion she ceased to call his name the silence was 
unbroken. 

She turned to the bell by her bedside and kept her 
finger pressed upon the button until the girl came in 
response. 


19 


290 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR, 


“ My brother — Mr. Launce. Tell him I want him 
at once,” she said. 

“ He left the house only a minute since, miss.” 

“ You saw which v/ay ho went. Find him, and 
bring him back, and I will give you money.” 

A look of deep dejection fell upon the girl’s face as 
she said — 

“ A carriage was standing by the door, and he 
jumped into it, miss ; and while I was looking to see 
which way he would go, I heard your bell ring.” 

Dorothy fell back upon her pillow. 

“What have I done by my thoughtless selfishness ? ” 
she thought. “ Why could I not see how wickedly 
unjust the suspicions were which led me on to this 
last act of shameful folly? How could I doubt for 
one moment the devotion of him whose love I have 
put to the fullest test ? With what patience has he 
stood by me in his own disappointment, watched 
tenderly over me when my face was turned from him 
to a more favored man ? ” 

She did not doubt the object with which Gerard had 
left her. He had gone to accept at once the terms of- 
fered by Sebastian Fleming ; and she had little hope 
that he would return with that object unachieved. 
The only chance of escape her imagination suggested 
was that he would, at the last moment, see how foolish 
and selfish she was, and disregard her expressed wish. 
How feeble was that hope ! Had he ever disregarded 
her desires, or rated her feelings and principles at a 
low value ? 

In anxiety and grief she lay restlessly awaiting his 
return, and hoping yet to revoke all she had said, 
in time to save Gerard. The time dragged heavily 
along ; an hour passed, and he was still absent. Had 
he gone forever ? Would he never return ? It might 
be that the mysterious terms exacted by Sebastian 
Fleming required his immediate separation from her 
as it had been the case with Josef. Perhaps they 
were never to meet again, If those were the means of 
obtaining Josefs release, Gerard might well refuse 
them, knowing how helpless she was without him. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


291 


She could not wish for Josefs return at such a price 
as that. She could never he happy with him, knowing 
that Gerard was banished by his presence. 

It was with joyful relief that her strained ear 
caught the sound of Gerard’s foot upon the stair. He 
came up with soft and careful steps, and paused at the 
door to listen. 

“ Come in, dear,” she cried, looking anxiously to 
catch the first glimpse of his face. 

She found no change there ; it wore the same firm 
expression of earnest thought and tender affection. 
It seemed to Dorothy that she had never before notict d 
what beauty lay in that strong manly face. 

“ Gerard dear, my heart is full of gratitude because 
you have returned,” she said, as he came to her side. 

“ Have I been so long that you thought I should not 
come back ? ” 

“ I have not known what to think, and I feared the 
worst.” 

“ And that fear was that I had grown so tired of my 
little sister that I meant to run away from her ? ” 

“ Not that. But directly you had gone I felt how 
wicked and foolish I had been, and then I thought 
that, perhaps, you would never return to learn that I 
repent my thoughtless act and ask you to forgive me.” 

“ That was a strange notion to enter your head, 
Dolly,” Gerard said, looking at her with perplexity in 
his eyes. “ Why should you think that I might never 
return to you ? ” 

“ I heard that Sebastian Fleming had offered you 
the means of restoring Josef to me, and I knew by 
your refusing them that they must necessitate some 
sacrifice on your x)art which would give me pain, and 
I could think of none greater than that of your being 
separated from me.” 

“ Who told you that Sebastian Fleming was here ? ” 

“ The servant who waits upon me.” 

“ And how did you learn that he had offered me 
terms for Josef’s liberation?” 

“ By an anonymous letter I received in your absence 
on Saturday.” 


292 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


Gerard started in his seat as the train of events pre- 
sented themselves to his mind, and he exclaimed — 

“ I know who sent it — the subtle villain ! ” 

“ But was the truth told in that letter ? ” 

“ Yes, Dolly.” 

“ And have you accepted the terms he offered ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Since you left me ? ” 

“ Yes, dear.” 

“ Oh, Heaven, forgive me ! Tell me, dear, what it is 
that you must suffer.” 

“You have already guessed what that amounts to.” 
“ Separation ? ” 

“ Separation.” 

“ And is it with you as it was with Josef — is some 
frightful condition imposed which will prevent you 
ever seeing me again ? ” 

“ Some such condition is made, indeed, dear.” 

• “Bather than that should he I would never see 
Josef again. I did not know what I was saying when 
I asked you to bring him back to me. I did not con- 
sider all that it might cost you. When Josef and I 
parted, it was forever. Let it be so ; better that than 
that I should lose you forever, my true, loving 
brother.” 

“Do you mean that?” Gerard asked, seizing her 
hand, and speaking in a tone of deep earnestness. 

“ Indeed, yes. I think I have never known before 
how dear you are to me, how necessary you are to my 
happiness.” 

“ Oh, Dolly ! had I known this — ^liad I even hoiked 
as much.” 

“You know it now, dear, and I know it. In a few 
days I shall be strong enough to travel, and we will go 
away as you proposed. The change will do me good. 
And I have something to live for. It is to repay you 
in some measure for your patient love and care. To 
be a helping sister and companion for you. It will be 
not merely a duty, but a loving endeavor on my part, 
which will help me to forget the past. We shall be 
quite content, and in time happy, dear Gerard. Believe 


FOU LOVE AND lIONOEi. 


293 


me, I am earnest and sincere in what I say ; I shall 
waver no more. I know what it is right that I should 
do, and I will do it.” 

“ Too late,” Gerard said. 

“Why?” 

“ I have given my word — pledged myself by every 
promise that is sacred to a man of honor, to fulfil the 
conditions made by Sebastian Fleming.” 

“ But I will refuse to marry Josef ; then the con- 
dition which you have made cannot be enforced.” 

“The condition was simply that Josef should be 
released from his bond. I could not doubt that in that 
case you would marry him.” 

“Go to Sebastian Fleming. Tell him that you 
retract your promise. He cannot yet have had time to 
see Josef.” 

“ I cannot retract if he refuses to let me.” 

“There is still hope while the question is unan- 
swered. Go to him — for my sake go. Think of my 
danger — of the remorse I must endure, if, by my hasty 
foolish words, you are forever banished from me.” 

Gerard hesitated for a few minutes, and then, at 
Dorothy’s renewed supplication, he acceded to her 
wish. 

He was absent less than half an hour. As he re- 
entered the room, Dorothy saw by the expression of 
his face that he had failed. 

“ Has he refused to cancel the bond with you? ” she 
asked. 

“ Sebastian Fleming is no longer in Bruges,” he an- 
swered. 


294 


FOR LOVE AEL HONOR. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

MR. BENEDICK AND SEBASTIAN FLEMING ^FRANCOIS 

LUCRE si’s narrative. 

A TINY church standing on the edge of a bluff rock, 
a rude inn, and some ten or twelve whitened houses 
composed the village of Forgnasco, in the Italian Alps, 
where Josef had been sent by Sebastian Fleming to 
await his answer to that final appeal for mercy which 
the poor boy had made before leaving Bruges. What 
happened to him there I learned from Fran 9 ois Luchesi, 
the innkeeper. I can do no better than set down the 
translation of his narrative — 

“My name is Franyois Luchesi. I am forty-five 
years of age. I keep the Osteria di Forgnasco. There 
is very little need of an inn at Forgnasco. Men, women, 
and children, all told, we number fifty-nine souls, and 
all are poor. Our road is not trodden by the tourists, 
who scatter their money so lavishly amongst the passes 
and valleys of the Maggiore district. I have seen but 
four from the time 1 took the inn of Carlo Bianco 
twenty-one years ago until the day when Mr. Josef 
Benedick came. I do not know why our mountain 
village is neglected. In my young days I served as 
guide to the Swiss and German and English visitors, 
who started from the Lago di Como or Bergamo, to 
explore the Adamello and Brenta mountains, so that 
I know them all well, yet none seems so beautiful and 
grand as that upon which our little village stands. I 
have many sweet associations with it, to be sure. My 
mother lived there, and it was there that I wooed 
Catarina and made her my wife. That may have much 
to do with it, but not all. Nothing can be grander 
than the snow-capped mountains, the deep crevasses. 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


295 


impenetrable in their depth to the eye, and which no 
man has ever yet sounded ; nothing more lovely than 
the gentle slopes far below, here tenderly green 
with the rich pastures, there feathery soft with the 
tops of the beeches and chestnuts, as seen from the 
sharp granite edge of our village. 

“ The path from Bergamo ascends by the face of the 
steep mountain ; there is just room for a cart with two 
wheels to travel safely ; in parts, there are wide spaces 
where two can pass each other, which is a great conveni- 
ence. But the ascent is very long and tedious ; that is 
why the easy-going tourists — ladies and stout gentle- 
men — avoid it ; while, on the other hand, there is no part 
of the ascent sufficiently dangerous to tempt the Eng- 
lish gentlemen, who only love to risk their necks for no 
purpose, by ascending and descending peaks in parts 
which ordinary men leave alone. The road beyond our 
village divides and winds among the rocks to some scat- 
tered cottages where the shepherds live, and there it 
ends. If the climbers only knew how easy it would be 
to lose themselves or meet with an accident in the path- 
less mountains beyond I believe trade would be much 
better at Forgnasco. As it is, there is but little com- 
merce with us. Sometimes a dealer stops to bargain 
with the shepherds, and once a week Carlo Bianco, who 
sold me the inn to enter into business as a general 
dealer, comes up with his cart full of groceries, and 
letters from the post when there are any, which is seldom 
enough you may be sure ; and he stops the night and 
leaves us in the morning. Then we are quite cut off 
from the world for another seven days, and know that 
we must rely upon ourselves for amusement and the 
necessities of life. It is always a great day when he 
comes, and all the men, including our good priest, come 
into my room to listen to the budget of news he brings 
with him. We look forward to the coming of Bianco, 
and my daughter puts on her best things as if for a 
fete, not because she wishes to fascinate liiin, for he is 
old ; but because it is the nature of women to improve 
their appearance whenever there is a pretext for it. 

“ One evening, in the month of April, just as I came 


296 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


in from my garden to eat the bowl of soup Maria, my 
daughter, had prepared for me — my wife, alas ! is no 
longer in this world — Tito, the shepherd boy, rushed 
up to my door, panting for breath, and, in words that 
were hardly intelligible for the haste in which he spoke 
them, gave me to understand that someone was coming 
up the mountain. W e could hardly believe that he 
spoke the truth, for Carlo Bianco had left us on Mon- 
day morning, and it was now only Wednesday ; and 
further, it was not the season for dealers to come, and 
dealers always take care to tell me by letter sometime 
beforehand, in order that I may get in a good supply 
of victuals, and have all the shepherds who wish to 
make bargains collected in my room to meet them. 
But Tito repeated his assertion with such assurance 
that we could no longer doubt him, and at once ran to 
the corner of the churchyard, whence one can see right 
down one side of the mountain, and follow the rocky 
path with the eye for a long way. There, sure enough, 
we saw a carriage slowly ascending, and not twenty 
minutes, distance from us, and we could make out 
Carlo Bianco with a stranger sitting beside him. I con- 
cluded that the stranger could be nothing less than a 
tourist, and hastened to set my room in order and see 
what there was for him to eat, knowing, by experience, 
that the first thing a tourist looks for on coming to a 
beautiful place is food ; meanwhile, Maria occupied her- 
self in getting out the most attractive dress she pos- 
sessed. We were still busy in our several ways when 
Carlo Bianco drove up to the door and called out, 
“ Iley, Franyois, quick — I have brought a visitor. 
Look alive.” 

“ I went to the door, followed by Maria, and found 
our visitor already descended from the cart. I thought 
he must be an Italian gentleman — his long dark hair, 
his eyes, and his complexion deceived me — and I sal- 
uted him in Italian. 

“‘You must speak in English’ said Bianco; ‘the 
gentleman does not know any Italian but si, and non, 
and gratzieP 

“ It was a long while since I had spoken English, but 


FOR 0 VE AND HONOR. 


297 


after some trouble in recollecting the right words to use, 

I said, ‘ Good-day, sir ; very fine weather ; how do 
you do ?’ 

“ He nodded to me, and said — 

“ ‘ I shall stay here for some days — perhaps some 
weeks — if you can give me lodging.’ 

“I led him into the house, and showed him what 
accommodation I could make. He just glanced at the. 
bed, and sat down by the chimney, putting the violin- 
case he carried in his hand upon the table, and then 
cast his eyes dreamily to the right and left. 

“ He was unlike any tourist I had ever seen. He 
showed no signs of curiosity ; he did not poke about the 
room for old plates, old boxes, candlesticks, fire-irons, 
broken bottles, and other simple things which usually 
afford such delight. He looked tired. There were 
dark lines below his eyes. His cheeks were hollow 
and colorless. 

“ ‘ Master is fatigued with the journey,’ I said. 

“ ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. 

“ ‘ Master is ill — he has come here probably for the 
sake of our pure air.’ 

“ ‘ No,’ he replied. 

“ ‘ To see if we have any glaciers or precipices ? ’ 

“ Again he said no, and rising from his chair took 
up his hat as if to put an end to my questions. 

“ ‘ Pardon me,’ I said ; ‘ but master is undoubtedly 
hungry.’ 

“ ‘ No,’ he replied once more. ‘ I will eat when din- 
ner is ready.’ 

“ And, with that, he went out by the door, and, walk- 
ing across the piazza, threw himself down on the turf 
by the edge of the descent. 

“ I could not make him out, nor understand what he 
had come to Forgnasco for, nor could Carlo Bianco help 
me. He said that the padrone of the post hotel at Ber- 
gamo had sent him to carry an English gentleman up 
to Forgnasco, and he had simply obeyed. The gentle- 
man had walked best part of the way, but took not 
the slightest notice of the views that were to be 
seen. He had neither alpenstock nor guide-book, nor 


298 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


any luggage, save a valise and a violin. We formed 
a hundred different conjectures as to the cause of 
his melancholy aspect, tlie look of fatigue and 'ill- 
health upon his face, but found none satisfactory. 

“ ‘ I believe his heart is breaking with love, said 
Maria. 

“ ‘ Nonsense,’ said I. ‘ Do you think every one is 
as foolish as yourself ? ’ 

“ ‘ Maria is like all the rest of her sex,’ said Carlo 
Bianco, laughing. ‘ She thinks the only cause of real 
distress to a man is the loss of the likes of her.’ 

“ Maria made no reply, but she looked out upon the 
young fellow with an expression of tender pity upon 
her face that reminded me of the danger there might 
be to her in the presence of a young handsome gentle- 
man in the house, and I resolved to keep a sharp eye 
upon her, and cheek any love-making the moment I 
saw any sign of it. However, for the moment, I had 
other things to think of. There was nothing in the 
house but bread and cheese, and I was at my wits’ end 
to know what to provide for dinner, until I remembered 
that our good priest had a fine fowl fatting in the cage 
for his Sunday’s dinner ; so I went and got that, prom- 
ising his servant to explain matters to him when he 
came home from vespers. I plucked it, cut it up, and 
boiled it in a pan with some onions, and when it was 
ready for eating, I set It out on the table with my own 
clasp-knife and the best fork I could find, and then I 
went out and begged my guest to come in and dine. 

“ lie had not moved from the spot where he first 
threw himself : he nodded, and rose up at once, entered 
the room, and ate his meal in silence. I did not talk 
to him more than v/as necessary, for I saw it displeased 
him to answer my questions, and, besides, I had much 
to say to Carlo Bianco with respect to the extra provi- 
sions he would have to bring me on Sunday from Ber- 
gamo. But this did not prevent me keeping my eye 
on Maria, who, instead of sitting down to her usual 
corner, kept moving about on one pretence and another 
in that part of the room where she could see Mr. Bene- 
dick’s face. It was only natural that she should be 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


299 


struck with the beauty and sentimental sadness of the 
young gentleman. He scarcely took any notice of her. 
Once he fixed his eyes upon her, but her pretty face 
and neat figure seemed to have no attraction for him. 

“ The news had spread that a stranger had come to 
my inn, and before the time came for going to bed, 
nearly everybody in the village had called upon me, or 
passed by the house to catch a glimpse of him. Their 
regard made no difference to him. He sat on the bench 
outside the house until I lit the lamp, and begged him 
to enter ; then he drew his chair near the table, and 
read a volume of Shakespeare’s plays which he brought 
out of his valise, and he was still reading — his elbows 
upon the table, his face between his hands — when 
Maria and I bade him good-night. 

“ ‘ Good-night,’ he responded, just raising his head ; 
then he dropi3ed into his former position ; and so we left 
him. 

“ I fell asleep, wondering about my strange guest. I 
had been asleep, perhaps, a couple of hours, when I was 
awoke by my daughter calling to me from her compart- 
ment. 

“‘Father,’ she said, fearing, perhaps to wake Mr. 
Benedick ; ‘ father, do you hear those strange sounds ? ’ 

“ I sat up, rubbing my eyes, and listened attentively. 
It was some time before I could distinguish any sounds 
beyond the intermittent snore of Carlo Bianco in the 
hayloft ; then there fell upon my ear a faint distant 
wailing, almost like a woman singing her babe to sleep, 
but so far away that at first I could not make out any 
connected sounds, but as my ears became more accus- 
tomed to it, I traced a distinct melody, so full of sorrow 
and regret that I could only listen to it in wondering 
pity. Through the chinks of the boards that divided 
me from that part of the room where our visitor rested, 
I could see the light of the lamp, and sufficient was re- 
flected in my compartment to enable me presently to 
discern my daughter standing by my bed, wrapped in 
her winter cloak. 

“ ‘ What is it ? ’ she asked, in a trembling whisper. ‘ I 
cannot sleep, father ; I am afraid.’ 


300 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ ‘ There is nothing to he afraid of, child,’ said I ; 
some one is playing. The music is beautiful. Hark ! ’ 

“We both listened, and caught still the beautiful, 
sad strains, now high, now low, now quivering with 
deep emotion. What could it be — whence did it come, 
this wonderful night music? There was no one in 
Forgnasco who could play an instrument. Suddenly I 
remembered the violin-case our visitor brought with 
him, and, rising from my bed, I tapped softly, and then 
harder, at the partition. There was no response. It 
was he playing ; but where ? not in his room, certainly. 

“ Hastily I slipped on my clothes, speaking sharply 
to Maria the while, for the girl began to cry — half 
from commiseration, excited by the woeful music, half 
from fear. 

“ ‘ The night is dark ; the poor stranger will fall from 
Cat’s-neck Rock and be killed,’ she whispered. 

“ ‘ Nonsense,’ I replied ; ‘ he is a man, and not a fool. 
Go to y our ioed, silly girl.’ N evertheless, I myself feared 
for his safety. 

“ When I was dressed, I passed through the room to 
the door. By the lamp was the volume of poetry he 
had been reading. The door was as I had left it — 
closed, but not barred. There was no moon, but the 
night was sufficiently clear by reason of the multitude 
of stars shining through the bright atmosphere for me 
to see objects for twenty or thirty metres. The music 
was more distinct to my ear, but still distant ; and I 
had to descend the Bergamo road ten minutes at a 
round pace before I was near enough to see Mr. Bene- 
dick. He was seated on a boulder in one of those wide 
spaces which, as I have said, occasionally break the 
mountain road. I paused, and looked to see what it 
was that had attracted him to this spot. ‘ Possibly,’ 
said I, to myself, ‘ he was struck by some natural 
beauty of the rocks as he came along in the carriage 
with Carlo Bianco ; and being unable to sleep, he has 
come here to see if it is as beautiful in the starlight.’ 
But opposite where he sat was nothing but a great wall 
of rock that rose upon the opposite side of the abyss 
and shut off the view. We call this rock the ‘cieft 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


301 


wall,’ because of a curious wedged-shaped rift that 
divides the mass. The only thing I could see as I ap- 
proached him from behind was one great star that shone 
through this narrow opening. 

“I stood still, fearing to frighten him, and not know- 
ing how to act, and further, not wishing to silence the 
music. We hear little music in the mountains save 
the songs that we learn from our mothers, and I am 
no musician, and only a rude mountaineer ; but rough 
and hard as I am, my heart was touched with the 
lovely niusic that I heard. It entranced me, and as I 
listened all the sweetest scenes in my life came before 
me — I saw again my white-haired mother giving me her 
blessing as on that day when I first went away from 
Forgnasco to seek my fortune ; I saw Catarina as I saw 
her for the first time at the fete., dressed in her holiday 
costume, with the sun shining on her smooth hair, and 
her eyes sparkling with pleasure ; and I saw how she 
looked after her confinement — pale, and yet more 
beautiful than ever — with her infant at her breast; 
and still again I saw her as she lay with the little white 
blossoms from the mountain spread round her, her 
eyes closed that were never to shine again upon me, 
but with the smile still resting on her face as it ap- 
peared at the last moment when she looked towards 
me, and little Maria standing by my side holding my 
hand. It is no untruth to say I saw all this, as I 
listened to that music ; and more than that, the very 
same feelings of devotion and love throbbed in my 
breast, as when I saw them in reality. When he 
ceased to play he rested his elbow upon his knee, his 
cheek upon his hand, and continued to gaze upon the 
beautiful star, as if it were the sacred symbol of some 
divine object of his adoration. 

“ A movement of the stones under my feet caught 
his attention. 

“ ‘ Pardon me, master,’ I said ; ‘ I came to seek you. 
Your violin awoke us.’ 

“ ‘ Do I annoy you ? ’ he asked. ‘ I can go farther 
away.’ 

“ ‘ By no means. It is only that I feared for your 


302 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


safety. The rocks are treacherous under the foot, 
and should the clouds rise, your life might be im- 
perilled.’ 

“ He laughed at the idea of his safety being in jeop- 
ardy, and replied — 

“ ‘ Have no fear. I have none. I thank you for your 
care. Good-night.’ 

“I bade him good-night for the second time, and 
returned by the steep path to the village. I found 
Maria at the head of the road. 

“ ‘ Go to bed again, Maria,’ said I ; ‘ you will be hav- 
ing a cold. There is nothing at all to make a fuss about. 
The young gentleman has descended the road to play, 
in order that he might not disturb us. Go to bed, girl.’ 

“Maria tells me that he returned to the house about 
an hour after me. I cannot say, for, to tell the truth, 
I fell asleep very shortly after getting into bed again, 
knowing that I must be up betimes in the morning to 
get Carlo Bianco his breakfast. 

“ When Bianco was about to start, Mr. Benedick 
came out, and said to us — 

“ ‘ This man brings the letters from the post, does he 
not?’ 

“ ‘ Once a week,’ I replied ; ‘ he will come next 
Sunday.’ 

“ ‘ Tell him,’ said he, ‘ that if a letter comes to these 
parts for Josef Benedick, he must bring it to me with- 
out delay, and whatever it may cost him I will doubly 
pay.’ 

“I gave Bianco this order, which he promised to 
obey ; but he did not come again until Sunday, and 
then he had no letter for Josef Benedick. 

“ Meanwhile nothing occurred which it is necessary 
to tell. As ]Mr. Benedick was on the first day, so he 
remained. Nothing affected him. He was out of doors 
nearly the whole day. Once it rained from morning 
until night, but lie was out all the same, and seemed 
scarcely to know that his clothes were v\ret. Our good 
priest called to see him, and, through me, asked a great 
many questions, and said a number of agreeable things 
Avith a view of learning why Mr. Benedick had come 


FOR LOVF AND HONOR. 


303 


to Forgnasco ; but the young gentleman answered in a 
manner that defeated our curiosity, and the interview 
ended witli no lessening of tlie distance between him 
and his fellow-creatures. Maria was crazed with ad- 
miration and pity for him, and I believe she would 
have given her very heart’s blood to make him happy. 
She watched him, waited upon him, followed him 
secretly wherever he went, and my sternest words 
could not turn her from her folly. He took no notice 
of her save once, and I only came to know that by 
accident. 

“ I had sent Maria to Pinsone — a settlement of three 
or four shepherd’s houses, an hour from us — to buy 
some chickens that Mother Borghetti had for sale, and 
was looking out for her, when I saw Mr. Benedick com- 
ing down the path with Maria a little way behind him. 
He held a piece of green ribbon in his hand ; she hung 
her head, and I saw that her cheeks were all aflame. 

“ ‘ Fran9ois,’ said Mr. Benedick, ‘ your daughter has 
given me this ribbon, and said something which I can- 
not make out. Will you tell me why you sent it to 
me ?’ 

“ ‘ I did not send it to you, master,’ said I ; then, 
turning to Maria, I bade her explain the matter. Maria 
found courage, and lifting her head, said — 

“ ‘ Ask him to carry it in his pocket. He does not 
go to the church. But I have had the ribbon blessed, 
and it will do him good to have it.’ 

“I laughed at her silliness, and explained to Mr. 
Benedick the folly of our simple mountain women, who 
believe that by giving a few coins to the priest to pray 
over a trifling tiling like a bracelet or a collar, it hence- 
forward lijts the power of consoling the wearer in her 
grief. I was about to throw the ribbon into the dirt-pit, 
to show how little I sympathized in such nonsense, when 
he arrested my hand, and taking it from me, held out his 
hand to Maria. She put her hand in his, looking up 
into his face, and he said the only word of Italian he 
could use — ‘Gratzie,’ but in such a tone of earnest 
gratitude that the finest and longest written sentence 
could not have conveyed so much deep feeling. Then 


304 FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 

he tied the ribbon round his wrist, and he never took 
it off after. 

“He still went out in the night when all was quiet, 
and the heavens revealed their wealth of shining stars, 
and he pliiyed; but his music never woke me. Maria, 
I know, missed not a note that he played. It seemed 
to me that she must be growing like him, able to live 
without sleep. Well, it is so with the nightingales in 
their season of love. 

“ But a miraculous change, as it appeared to me, came 
about before very many days had gone, and the begin- 
ning of it Avas this — 

“ 1 have said that Mr. Benedick went out every day, 
wet or fine ; and 1 found out before long that he always 
went in the same direction — doAvn the hill towards 
Bergamo. I believed that he went that way in the 
hope of Carlo Bianco bringing him a letter ; and I think 
I was not wrong. One evening, when he had been 
absent about a couple of hours, Maria brought me word 
that Bianco’s carriage was ascending the path, and 
that besides him and Mr. Benedick there were two other 
men. I confess her eyes Avere sharper than mine, for 
at the distance the carriage Avas when I first saAv it I 
could descry four figures, but could not be certain that 
any one was Mr. Benedick or Carlo Bianco. However, 
she persisted in her assertion, and before long it was 
verified ; for on their turning the corner of a zig-zag 
which had for some minutes hid them from our sight, 
and coming upon that space Avhere Mr. Benedick loved 
to play, Ave could see them distinctly — Carlo Bianco, 
Avith his long, AAdiite beard, Mr. Benedick, and tAA^o 
others. 

“ Mr. Benedick Avalked in front of the carriage, but 
Avith an elastic step and a brightness of countenance 
such as Ave had never seen before. A man walked be- 
hind the carriage, clinging to it as if he Avere greatly 
fatigued, and the second stranger sat beside Bianco. 
But it puzzled me to make out AA'hat kind of person it 
Avas ; for, in the first place, the figure Avas small enough 
to be ar little Avoman’s or a child’s, and, in the second, 
the face Avas so ugly, even at that distance, that it 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


305 


might well have been a monkey that was being carried 
to us. The face peered out of a thick covering like a 
hood or the cowl of a monk. 

“ At first I thought that possibly this figure was that 
of the woman from whom Mr. Benedick was parted, 
and I dare say Maria thought the same, for I saw her 
striving to look content as a mother does when another 
takes her babe, and causes it to smile. Women cannot 
help being jealous of those they love. It is part of 
their nature. But when we came to see how hideous the 
creature was who rode in the cart, we could entertain 
this supposition no longer. He was no less horrible to 
look at when he came near, and we saw that it was a 
dwarfish little old man. His face was the most like 
that of Death in its fleshless, livid, angular appearance 
that I have ever seen. It was horrible. But Mr. 
Benedick could see nothing repulsive in him. When 
he helped to lift the strange old man from the carriage 
his eyes were full of gratitude and affectionate solici- 
tude ; he did his utmost to make him comfortable in 
my inn, and insisted upon my helping him to move, the 
bed closer to the fire for the little old dwarf to sleep 
in. He said to me, ‘ This is Mr. Sebastian Fleming — my 
good angel ; ’ and when we were out of his hearing he 
told me that the old man had an extraordinary power 
over his destiny, that he had separated him from his 
sweetheart to test their fidelity, and that now, being 
assured that their love was sincere, he intended to 
reunite them again. He was in high spirits, seemingly 
almost mad with the transition from despair to joy ; 
and catching sight of Maria standing at a distance 
watching him, he beckoned to her, and bade me tell 
her that her ribbon had brought him more than he 
had dared to hope for, and that when he was married 
he would bring his beautiful wife to see and thank the 
only one who had sought to comfort him in his desola- 
tion. I told Maria what he said, and she put up her 
apron and burst into tears. Perhaps delight was the 
cause of her weeping, perhaps a pang too sharp to be 
borne with fortitude pierced her heart to think that she 
was iu3t beautiful^ nor so well- beloved. I know not, 

20 


306 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


but looking at her, I could not scold her for her weak- 
ness, and being touched with pity, I prayed in my heart 
that JMr. Benedick would think better of bringing his 
wife to Forgnasco. 

“Mr. Fleming was irritable and unpleasant. Tie 
could speak Italian, and he let me know it by abusing 
the accommodation I provided. If it had not been for 
the character Mr. Benedick gave him, I should have 
answered him roundly that if he did not care for my 
inn he might go elsewhere ; but I thought of the good 
he had done to my young friend, and held my tongue, 
saying to myself that it was natural for old intirm 
people to be unamiable in their outward expression, and 
that this one was no more to be judged by his words 
than by his appearance. 

“ The evening had clouded over, and the pass occa- 
sionally was obscured in thick vapor. It was impos- 
sible, therefore, for Carlo Bianco to return to Bergamo 
that night, even had he adopted the suggestion of Mr. 
Fleming that they should light the way with torches. 
Both he and Mr. Benedick were anxious to leave 
Forgnasco as early as possible, which in Mr. Benedick’s 
case was not to be wondered at, and it was arranged 
that as soon as it was light they should start on the 
return journey. I made up a bed for Mr. Fleming’s 
servant in the loft with Carlo Bianco, and I offered 
IVIr. Benedick part of mine, hinting to him that he 
would not wish to play his violin any more upon our 
mountains ; but he refused my offer, and said that 
though he might not wish to play, he certainly would 
not be able to sleep, and that he would sit in the same 
room with Mr. Fleming, to render assistance to him if 
he needed it. 

“When supper was finished, and we had cleared 
away the things, Sebastian Flemiiij^ dismissed his serv- 
ant, who, poor wretch, was quite ill with the exertion 
of walking after his master up the steep road from 
Bergamo, and JMaria and I bade the two gentlemen 
good-night. 

“ I liave said that the part of the room in which I 
slept was divided from the rest by a partition of 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


307 


boards so loosely put together that the light of the 
lamp could be seen through it ; from the same cause 
the voices in one portion could be heard distinctly in 
the next. I heard Mr. Benedick ask his companion if 
he intended to go to bed early. 

“‘No,’ replied the squeaky voice of the old man. 
‘ This chair with the pillows as you have arranged 
them will be more comfortable than the wretched beds 
provided in these mountains. If I am tired I shall 
sleep — I shall sleep — I shall sleep.’ 

“ ‘ Shall we talk of the business that brings you here 
now, sir, in that case ? ’ 

“ ‘ No; I don’t want to talk. I prefer thinking. It 
will be sufficient for you if I prove the truth of what 
I said, and give you your release.’ 

“ A quick cry of satisfaction was the only answer of 
Mr. Benedick, and then I heard the rustling of a piece 
of paper. 

“ Curious to know what was taking place, I put my 
eye to a chink and looked through. I could see the 
horrid old man unfolding a paper slowly, as if he were 
enjoying the eager anxiety of Mr. Benedick to have it. 
He read it slowly through, and then folded it again and 
gave it to Mr. Benedick, who, without waiting to read 
it, crumpled it up in his hand, and, stepping to the 
fire, thrust it amongst the burning wood, and raked it 
about until every fragment was destroyed. Then he 
seated himself in his chair again with a deep sigh of 
satisfaction. 

“ ‘ You are satisfied now ? ’ asked the old man. 

“ ‘ To the full. Oh, if I could express all that I 
feel 

“ ‘ You would fatigue me,’ interrupted Mr. Fleming, 
with a deprecatory movement of his hand. ‘ Say noth- 
ing. Let us rest. One word. Has the rascal here 
made out his bill ? ’ 

“ ‘ I have not asked for it.’ 

“ ‘ It doesn’t matter. He won’t forget it. I’ll warrant 
— a thief. We will start early. Delicate Miss Gordon 
must not be kept waiting ! ’ 

“ ‘ We will start the moment the road is passable. 


308 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


You may be sure I do not wish to delay the return.’ 

“ ‘ Of course not. Now let us rest, and say no more 
— and say no more.’ 

“ I got into bed, not without an angry feeling against 
the old man, who had spoken in such unpleasant terms 
of me. I determined that, however moderate I might 
charge Mr. Benedick, I would show no mercy towards 
Mr. Fleming ; and I lay and thought out what I could 
make him pay for, and how much I should charge. 
These thoughts were so full of interest to me, that my 
first disposition to sleep passed off, and I became as 
fresh and sleepless as if it were broad day instead of 
night. Then, when I wished to sleep, I found it 
impossible to do so. My ear caught every sound, even 
to the crackle of the burning log. The sounds made 
by Sebastian Fleming as he slept were the strangest I 
had ever heard. A dry rattling came from his throat, 
and sometimes that was varied by an odd little squeak, 
which would have seemed ridiculous and funny if it 
had not been that I wished to go to sleep, and that 
these strange sounds prevented me. 

“ At length I resolved to get out of bed, for often a 
little change of that kind breaks the monotony and pro- 
vokes sleep. I slipped out, and having nothing better 
to do, I sat down beside the partition and put my eye 
to a chink to see how the ugly little old man looked 
when he made these strange noises. 

‘‘ He was propped up amongst pillows in his chair ; 
his shirt-collar was open, and his head thrown back 
so as to reveal his horrible leather-like throat with the 
great protuberance of his windpipe. . Every now and 
then he fetched a longer breath — as though the res- 
piration had been failing during the interval, and his 
lungs required a larger supply of air ; then he made 
the odd squeaking sound that I had heard, and his 
whole body gave a spasmodic jerk. 

“ As I watched, I noticed that from an inside pocket 
of his coat which was unbuttoned and had fallen back, 
a letter projected, and with every movement of his 
body issued still further, until a jerk more violent than 
those which had preceded, caused it to . fall torn its 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 309 

place to the ground. Mr. Benedick also noticed this, 
and. picking up the paper, he laid it on the table. 

“Something upon the paper excited his curiosity, 
for after looking at it as it lay upon the table for some 
time, he took it in his hand and examined it more 
closely. From where I was it looked exactly like the 
piece of paper Mr. Benedick had burnt. After regard- 
ing it for a moment he laid it down upon the table, 
and turned his chair so as to get the paper out of his 
sight and out of his thoughts as well. His new position 
brought the sleeper before his eyes. 

“ 1 thought to myself, at that moment, ‘ Can it be 
that Mr. Benedick is mistaken and deceived ? Is that 
villainous looking old man in truth a “ good angel ” ? 
Can it be possible that anything beautiful is lodged in 
such a hideous body ? Was he tricking Mr. Benedick ? 
Was that paper he had burnt the genuine release — or 
whatever it might be — which Mr. Benedick believed, 
or had he merely burnt a copy ? The idea may seem 
an extravagant one for me to have formed, knowing so 
little ; but the vile expression upon Mr. Fleming’s face 
was one which would make anybody entertain sus- 
picions, and catch at conjectures. Clearly some such 
thoughts were aroused in Mr. Benedick’s mind, for 
after a little time he turned again to the table, fixing 
his eyes upon the paper which had fallen from Sebas- 
tian Fleming’s pocket. 

“ Again he took it up, and this time, with a glance 
at his sleeping companion, unfolded it. 

“ I saw his eyes open wide as he read the first words, 
and then, as he read on, his hand trembled to such a 
degree that he had to hold the paper upon the table to 
continue. When he had finished it he turned towards 
Sebastian Fleming with such a look of hate upon his 
face that I thought he meant to do him a mischief. 
He rose to his feet, and grasped the back of the heavy 
chair, as if he meditated crushing that horrible skull. I 
trembled with excitement, and was about to raise my 
voice, when he relaxed his hold and turned away in 
loathing and horror. Then he seated himself and 
again read the paper and, having done so, clasped his 


310 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


hands upon his forehead, and seemed to give himself 
up to agitated thought. For quite a long time he sat 
in that attitude — not moving, making no sound ; then 
he lifted his head, and I saw that his face wore once 
more that look of blank despair which I had seen there 
before. He folded the paper, and laid it at Sebastian 
Fleming’s feet, where it had fallen.” 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR, 


311 


CHAPTER XLII. 

FAEEWELL — FRANCOIS LUCRE Si’ S NARRATIVE CON- 
TINUED. 

“ When Mr. Benedick had replaced the paper at 
Sebastian Fleming’s feet where it had fallen, he turned 
again to the table, and buried his face in his hands. 
I think he must have remained in that attitude for 
fully ten minutes, during which time I scarcely moved ; 
for a strange mysterious tragedy in human existence 
was going forward before my eyes, I felt certain, and 
1 waited for the conclusion with breathless expectancy, 
feeling that at any moment I might be called upon to 
interfere. 

“ He raised his head, and drew from his breast a 
packet, which he opened ; he took from it a few letters, 
and a little packet. The letters he read through one 
after the other ; they were short, and fell into the folds 
readily as if they had been opened and folded many 
times. He was sitting with his profile towards me, 
and as he read, I noticed a sweet tenderness spread 
over his girl-like features ; even at that distance I 
could see that the letters were written in the angular 
hand peculiar to English ladies, and I doubted not that 
they w'ere from his sweetheart. He finished the last 
with a sigh, and tied it and the rest together in a little 
bundle with a piece of black velvet, such as a slender 
girl might have worn round her throat. Then he 
opened the packet, and I saw a soft tress of hair and a 
gold wedding ring. He put the cold hair to his burn- 
ing cheek and his lips, and held them before his eyes 
until he could see them no longer, for the tears fell from 
his eyes, plashing upon the table, and then he dropped 
his arms upon the board, and laid his head upon his 
arms, and wept silently. I saw his shoulders heave as 


312 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


he strove to control his deep emotion. From this pros- 
tration he suddenly raised himself, and, as if seized 
with an uncontrollable rage, turned upon Sebastian 
Fleming. I saw murder in his eyes, and if I had had my 
senses about me I should have rushed into the next 
room to prevent his staining his hands with the blood 
of a helpless man ; but, to tell the truth, I was so con- 
fused with my anticipation of that climax, that I could 
not move hand nor foot, but sat there like one himself 
menaced with death. Happily the paroxysm passed 
away as quickly as it had come, and he turned away 
as before with that look of disgust and loathing on 
his face which told that his nature revolted against 
the violent act. 

“ He sat trembling like one recovering from an 
ague, awhile, and then he slowly put back the little 
treasures into his pocket-book, and that again into his 
breast. After doing this he rose, and passing round 
the further side of the table as if to avoid seeing Sebas- 
tian Fleming, went to the shelf where he kept certain 
things belonging to him, and returned to the table by 
the same way with a writing-case. He seated himself 
and wrote a short letter, which he folded and enclosed 
in an envelope. With this in his hand he came to the 
door of the compartment and tapped softly. 

“ ‘ What do you want ? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ Dress yourself,’ he whispered, ‘ and come out to 
me. I want to speak to you.’ 

“ ‘ I will come to you in two minutes,’ said I. 

“ Hastily I slipped on my clothes, passed through that 
part of the room where Sebastian Fleming was still 
sleeping, and opened the front door. 

“The night was still stormy. Not a ray of light 
lessened the darkness. I could taste the mist in my 
mouth. I could see nothing but the post of the door. 

“ ‘ Here I am — shut the door,’ I heard Mr. Benedick 
say. 

“ I closed the door as he desired. Then the obscurity 
was complete. 

“‘What are you doing, master?’ Tasked. ‘You 
must not be out in such weather as this.’ 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 313 

“ ‘ The weather makes no difference to me. I am 
going clown the road to Bergamo.’ 

“ ‘ It is suicide,’ said I. 

“ ‘ That is better then what might happen if I stayed 
within doors. I might murder a man in his sleep.’ 

“ ‘ It is not possible for a man like you to do 
murder.’ 

“ ‘ A man maddened as I am could do anything. 
Ten minutes ago, if he had woke, I should have stran- 
gled him. God forbid that we ever meet again — he 
and I.’ 

“ I did not answer. I knew he spoke the truth. 

“ ‘ Where are you ? Hold out your hand,’ he said, 
after a moment’s interval. 

“ ‘ Here,’ I said, holding out my hand until I touched 
his coat. It was already wet with the moisture from 
the cloud that enveloped us. He put a purse in my 
hand, and said — 

“ ‘ Pay yourself for the expense I have put you to, 
and give the remainder to Maria for her marriage 
portion. May she be happy ! She is a kind-hearted 
woman.’ 

“ ‘ What are you going to do ? ’ I asked, for the sus- 
picion fell upon me that he intended doing away with 
himself. 

“ ‘ I have told you. I am going down to Bergamo,’ 
said he. 

“ ‘ It is impossible in such weather as this. If the 
wind springs up, and it is more than likely, there will 
be snow, and you will be buried.’ 

“ ‘ I have thought of that. Still, I shall attempt it.’ 

“ ‘ But even if the snow does not come, the danger 
to you is no less. I would not go down the pass, well 
as I know the road, for all the money in the world with 
such darkness as this.’ 

“ ‘ Life is precious to you. You have something to 
lose. I nothing.’ 

“ ‘ God has forbidden us to throw away our lives.’ 

“ ‘ It is forbidden us to take the life of another. Do 
not hinder me, or you may have more to answer for 
than you dream of. I shall follow the sides of the 


314 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


rocks. I know the path. Have I not descended it 
many nights ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes ; but never in such darkness as this. Eest in 
the cow-barn until the light comes ; you will make 
greater progress than if you started, trusting to the 
perilous guidance of your touch. Below the shepherd’s 
hut the rocks are scattered, and will mislead you.’ 

“ ‘ I cannot rest — least of all where I am, within 
reach of that man. I will descend as far as the hut, if 
no further, and when the sun rises I can go on.’ 

Y^ou may never get so far,’ I said. 

“ ‘ I have provided against suicide.’ 

“ ‘ What do you mean ? ” 

“ ‘ Hold out your hand again.’ 

“ I held out my hand, and he put the letter into 
it. 

“ ‘ Keep that until you know my fate,’ he said. ‘ If 
I write to you, send it to me. If I am frozen on the 
road, or if after a week you hear nothing of me, send 
the letter to the man it is addressed to.’ 

“ ‘ And what am I to say to the old man when he 
awakes ? ’ 

“ ‘ I do not care. Tell him simply that I have 
started for Bergamo, and would not be turned from 
my purpose. That will clear you from all responsi- 
bility.’ 

“We were both silent for a few moments; then he 
spoke. 

“ ‘ Give me your hand,’ he said ; ‘ I will say good-bye 
to you in case we never meet again. , Bid Maria fare- 
well for me, and do not let her know that her charm 
has failed.’ 

“ I pressed his hand without speaking, for my voice 
failed me. I would have held him, but he drew his 
hand away forcibly, and I heard him no more. 

“ ‘ Ylaster,’ I said, but he did not reply. Then I 
stretched my hands to the right and left, going as far 
from the house as I dared go in the darkness ; but I felt 
nothing until I touched the barn built against the rock, 
and I thought that it would be unwise to go farther. 

“‘Master,’ I called, raising my voice higher. Ho 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


315 


answer came. I knelt down on the spot, and prayed to 
our blessed Virgin to guard that poor unhappy boy. 

“Then I rose, and returned to the house, following 
the barn and the outbuildings With my hand until I 
came to the door. There I stood to listen. 

“ My heart fell as 1 heard a sound like falling water : 
it was the wind rising among the Kidosco peaks. 


316 


FOR LO VE AND HONOR. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

FOR ETERNITY FRANCOIS LUCHESl’s NARRATIVE CON- 

CLUDED. 

“ I OPENED the door and re-entered the house as noise- 
lessly as possible ; nevertheless Mr. Fleming was awake, 
and, looking at me when I glanced towards him — 

“ ‘ Where is Mr. Benedick — the young gentleman, 
my friend ? ’ he asked. 

“ ‘ He is on the road to Bergamo,’ I replied. 

“ He looked at me hard with his horrible little glassy 
eyes, and said — 

“ ‘ On the road to Bergamo ! It is still night, is it 
not?’ 

“ ‘ The dead of night,’ I replied. 

“ ‘ Then why has he gone ? ’ he asked. 

“ ‘ How can I know ? ’ 

“ ‘ You do know. You are white, you shiver, you fear 
me.’ 

“ ‘ I fear no man,’ said I. ‘ If I tremble it is for the 
safety of that young gentleman. By nothing but a 
miracle can he arrive at Bergamo safely. Yet he would 
go.’ 

“ The old man turned his eyes from me in the slow, 
stealthy manner of a cat that fears the loss of its prey. 
In doing so he caught sight of the paper at his feet. 
He caught it up quickly, and, glancing at it, said — 

“ ‘ How did that come there, and how did it come out 
of my pocket ? ’ 

“ ‘ You ask me questions which I cannot answer.’ 

“ ‘ Will not answer,’ he growled. 

“ ‘ As you please,’ said I, going towards my door. 

“ ‘Wait, ’ he said. ‘ If Mr. Benedick can go down 
that road, I can also.’ 

“ ‘ Certainly,’ said I. ‘I shall not attempt to pre- 


FOR LOVE AJSTD HONOR. 


317 


vent yon from going ; but yon can be sure of one thing, 
and that is that no one will go with you.’ 

“ ‘ Don’t be a fool. Call my servant, and the fellow 
who brought us here, and wake up all the village and 
let them carry lights.’ 

“‘Your servant I will call, and tell Bianco what you 
desire ; but as for the rest of the people in Forgnasco, 
I shall let them sleep. I do not busy myself on fools’ 
errands.’ 

“ ‘ I know what you mean,’ he said, with a dry laugh. 
‘Be short. Name your price.’ 

“ ‘ There is no price would tempt me to lose my life, 
nor will I be the tempter of others to their destruction. 
You and your servant may do what you please.’ 

“ With these curt words — for I hated the old man as 
much as though he had done me an injury — I went up 
to the hay-loft, and told Bianco and the servant Mr. 
Fleming’s wishes. 

“ The servant got up grumbling, but Bianco would 
do nothing of the kind. He gave a short laugh. 

“ ‘ Tell him to go to the devil ! ’ he said, turnmg over 
on his side; and the next moment he was snoring 
again. 

“ There was no possibility of going on. Mr. Flem- 
ing vented his anger upon his unfortunate servant, and 
spent the remainder of the night in scolding him for 
not executing the foolish, contradictory, and impracti- 
cable orders he gave. 

“ With the first ray of morning light. Carlo Bianco 
came down from his sleeping-place. He was less in- 
dependent then than he had been in the night, and was 
anxious to earn the money Mr. Fleming offered for 
an immediate descent to Bergamo. He went out to 
harness his two strong mules, and I accompanied him, 
carrying a lantern, for the light of day was yet in- 
sufficient. 

“ The wind was blowing sharp and keen ; the ground 
was four centimetres deep in snow, while against the 
barn and rocks, where it had drifted, it was fully 
fifty. 

“ Overhead the clouds c6i4d be seen indistinctly 


318 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


sweeping along ; and the gusty sound was plainly au- 
dible where the winds swirled amongst the granite 
peaks. 

“ ‘ Bianco,’ said I, ‘ you will surely not attempt the 
descent in such weather as this ! You must at least 
wait until the sun rises and melts the snow.’ 

“ ‘ Mind your own business, Franyois,’ he replied ; ‘ I 
know mine. The old ape in there has offered to double 
my pay if I attempt the descent, and it will be all the 
better for me if I have to return.’ 

“ ‘ Well, it is your affair. But you will never he able 
to reach even the first plateau for the snow that will 
have drifted in the north angle of the pass, and it will 
be difficult work backing your carriage.’ • 

“ ‘ So much the better,’ said he. 

“ I said no more, but helped him to harness the mules. 
Whilst I was still busy, Maria came to the door. 

“ ‘ Father,’ said she, ‘ where is Mr. Benedick ? I can 
see him nowhere.’ 

“ ‘ 1 know where he is, and you shall know in good 
time,’ I replied. ‘ Have you given the old fellow his 
coffee ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, father ; he and his servant are both served. 
And he has his great fur coat on, and is all ready. He 
sent me to ask if Carlo Bianco was never coming.’ 

“ ‘ He is very anxious to get into the snow,’ said 
Bianco. ‘ I will not keep him waiting, and 1 hope he’ll 
enjoy it when he is in it, old goat ! ’ 

“ He led his mules out of the shed. Maria lingered 
behind, and coming to my side, asked again — 

“ ‘ Where is Mr. Benedick, father ? ’ 

“ ‘Don’t bother me, child,’ said I. ‘ You shall know 
in good time. I have the old man’s bill to draw up, 
and can think of nothing else.’ 

“Nevertheless, as I crossed from the barn to the 
house, and heard the wind howling below, I did think 
of the poor young man, and offered a silent prayer that 
he might have found a refuge in one of the shepherd’s 
huts upon the pass ; for otherwise I knew that he must 
already be a corpse under the white pall of snow. Mr. 
Fleming was outside when the carriage drew up. 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 319 

“ ‘ Your excellence has not forgotten that he owes 
me for entertainment,’ I said. 

“ ‘ That is well paid. There is a banknote on the 
table that will keep you on tilthy cheese till the end of 
your life,’ he answered. 

“ He was lifted into the carriage ; Carlo Bianco led 
the mules. There was thus a seat vacant in the car- 
riage, but Mr. Fleming would not permit his servant 
to take it ; the poor wretch was forced to follow behind, 
walking in the snow like a slave, and clinging to the 
back of the carriage for fear he should slip over the 
precipice. As he passed me his face looked like that of 
a vicious bull-dog. 

“ These incidents occupied the space of half an hour, 
and during that time the light had grown powerful, so 
that already we could see the space far down below, 
where so often Mr. Benedick had played in the still 
calm nights. When Maria again asked after him, I 
pointed down to the plateau, and said — 

“ ‘ He is there, my child ; or there ; ’ and I pointed 
from the plateau to the sky above. 

' “ She trembled and held my arm tightly to her, and 
her silence told me that she was praying for the young 
man. We both strained our eyes down the pass to the 
plateau, but could see not a speck on the white path 
that showed up distinctly against the dark sides of the 
rock. 

“ ‘ On the elbow beyond the plateau the snow will be 
a metre deep, and more,’ she said. ‘It is impossible 
that Bianco can go farther, even if it does not snow 
before he gets there.’ 

“ ‘ That is his business, my child,’ said I. ‘ Come, 
let us go in and get our winter hoods, and we will watch 
him descend.’ 

“ We went in, and quickly put on our sheepskin 
cloaks, with their great thick hoods, and then hurried 
back to the edge of our own plateau. 

“ ‘ When did Mr. Benedick go ? He was not in the 
room when I entered, and that was just after Carlo 
Bianco.’ 

‘ He started in the night.’ 


320 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


“ ‘ In the night ! And you, knowing the danger, did 
not stop him ? ’ 

“ ‘ He would not be stayed. I did my utmost to 
dissuade him.’ 

“ ‘ Ah, he would hasten hack to the beautiful girl he 
is to marry. I am not surprised that he should dare 
the passage, loving her so. But it was cruel of you, 
father, to let him go alone.’ 

“ ‘ Would you have had me risk my life ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes ; or let me risk mine.’ 

“ She took her arm from mine, as if she despised 
me for my cowardice. 

“ ‘ You forget that I am your father,’ I said. 

“ ‘ God forgive me ! ’ she replied penitently. 

“ But we had not time to think of ourselves. From 
the edge of the rock we could see the carriage descend- 
ing the path slowly, with Carlo Bianco at the head of the 
mules, encouraging them with gentle words as though 
they were children, the little old man seated all of a 
heap in the carriage, and the wretched servant clinging 
bn behind. They had got but a very short distance bii 
their way, for the mules were very careful, and tested 
every step they made. The show was not thick there, 
for the path is sheltered by the high shoulders of the 
rock all along this angle ; it was beyond the plateau 
opposite the split rock that the path was exposed, and 
where the snow would he drifted to an impassable 
extent. 

“ The wind blew so keenly that after watching the 
slow progress of the carriage for a quarter of an hour, 
we were forced to stamp about in the house to keep 
our blood in circulation. When we came out again to 
the edge, thb carriage was nearer the pleateau ; l^ut it 
had stopped. * 

“ The reason was obvious ; a thick gray veil hid the 
rocks beyond from our sight, and as the wind swept 
up to us it bore one or two flakes of snow with it. A 
snowstorm was coming. W e saw Carlo Bianco leading 
his mules carefully from the fore-part to the back of 
the carriage in order to return with it as quickly as 
possible. It was out of the question to turn- round at 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


321 


that narrow part ; but the shafts were made to shift in 
case of such an emergency. All the time he was 
moving the first mule, the little old man was gesticu- 
lating and calling out ; we could hear his thin, piping 
voice raised in remonstration. Carlo Bianco went on 
preparing his mules to return all the same. But 
presently we saw the servant lift the old man out, and 
carry him upon his back down to the plateau, which 
was not five minutes’ distance down from where the 
cart had stopped. Bianco might well have got there 
and sheltered his mules in the goat-shelter, but I saw 
well that the cunning old man intended to make a 
profit by the delay, and would not be persuaded from 
returning. 

“ The snow swept along now over where we stood, 
and in two minutes it was quite impossible to see down 
the path. The snow was still falling heavily when 
Carlo Bianco arrived. He had made the ascent in a 
shorter space of time than it took him to descend. He 
laughed heartily, and said the old man should pay 
heavily for cursing him ; then he had some hot coffee, 
and smoked a pipe, declaring he would not descend 
until the sun had melted the snow. 

“ The storm passed over after a quarter of an hour, 
and almost immediately afterwards the sun shone out. 
We went to the edge of the rock, and looked down. 
The air was particularly clear and brilliant ; we could 
see everything in the path down to the plateau as 
distinctly as if it was quite close to us. 

“ The first thing that attracted our attention was 
the servant some five minutes’ distance from the 
plateau, ascending the path, and holding on by the 
rocks as if he expected the path to give way under 
his feet at every step. He had been sent off by Mr. 
Fleming with instructions to Carlo Bianco to descend 
immediately, and to bring firewood and coffee with 
him. Bianco laughed like one possessed to watch the 
timorous movements of the servant, but neither Maria 
nor I were in a humor to join in his merriment. 
Both of us were thinking of the poor young man, 
and wondering what had befallen him. Bianco had 

21 


322 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


seen no sign of him on the descent, and we did not 
know until later, that on arriving at the shelter on 
the plateau, Mr. Fleming and his servant had found 
Mr. Benedick standing in the hut, where he had been 
forced to stop by the impassable barrier of snow upon 
the path beyond. But his presence there was soon to 
be revealed to us. 

“We were looking down the path — Maria holding 
my hand, and Bianco making jests upon the move- 
ments of the poor servant — when our ears were struck 
by the shrill sharp cry of the old man from below. 

“ ‘ Help ! ’ we heard him cry in English, and then 
‘ Succor ! ’ in Italian. 

“ The servant turned his head to look below, but 
did not move. Bianco ceased to laugh. Maria grasped 
my hand. 

“ I remembered what Mr. Benedick had said about 
the impulse to murder the old man which he feared, 
and I trembled. 

“We strained our eyes and our ears. We could see 
nothing but the snow upon the plateau. A projecting 
rock concealed the shepherd’s hut from our sight. 

“ ‘ Succor ! — assassin ! — help ! — murder ! ’ again 
reached our ears, but now less distinctly, and broken 
as if the man’s throat were clutched. We listened and 
waited, scarcely breathing. It was impossible for us 
to offer succor. We could do nothing but wait and 
watch. 

“ Presently, from beyond the rock there strode out 
the figure of the young man we knew so well. We 
knew it was Mr. Benedick by his long dark hair and 
white face. With his right hand he was dragging 
something that looked like a sack towards the edge of 
the precipice. It was Mr. Sebastian Fleming, in his 
thick fur coat. We saw his short arms waving franti- 
cally, and he never ceased to cry, but his voice was 
choked, for I think Mr. Benedick must have dragged 
him by his collar over the snow. At the very edge of 
the rock, standing up to his knees in the snow Mr. 
Benedick stopped. 

He bent over the old man and spoke some words 


FOE LOVE AJSfL HONOR. 


323 


which did not reach our ears ; then he caught hold of 
him by the arms, holding them down by the side, and 
raising him high, as if he had been no heavier than a 
doll, he cast him away. We saw the old man leave 
his hands and shoot outwards towards the black gulf. 
We saw his body turn right over ; we heard a shrill 
cry, and then he disappeared down the abyss, and his 
scream fading rapidly away, all was still and silent. 

“ The face of the plateau was shaped like the letter 
V. It was from the very apex of this angle that Mr. 
Benedick hurled Sebastian Fleming ; nearer to us, and 
almost where the angle struck out from the path, was 
that rock on which he had sat and played at night 
time ; it faced the ‘ cleft wall.’ It was hither that 
the young man walked after casting the old man 
from him. 

“ He walked with slow steps, and with his head 
bent down as if in thought. When he came to the 
rock he sat down for an instant. Then he rose. ‘ Oh, 
my father ! Oh, love ! ’ Maria cried, not knowing what 
she said, yet terrified by the dread that overpowered 
her. 

“ He did not hear Maria’s cry. Perhaps, at that 
supreme moment, he had no thought but of the woman 
he loved. He stood up upon the rock, and looked to- 
wards the cleft, clasping his hands as if in supplication 
for forgiveness ; then, with one single step forward he 
passed over the edge of the precipice, and was lost. 
Not a sound reached our ear from that unfathomable 
abyss to tell that he had passed from life into eternity ! ” 


324 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 
all’s well that exds well. 

I HASTEN to complete what I have to tell. I cannot 
linger over the tragic circumstances of my dear son’s 
end. Even now, as I write, my pen trembles, and the 
words become illegible through the tears that spring to 
my eyes. For I cannot but recall to mind those days 
of careless gaiety, when my poor Josef made all about 
him merry with his wild laughter and lively tunes ; and 
nothing is so touching to the heart as to remember 
happiness when happiness is no more. 

The first news I heard of Josef was from Mr. Gerard 
Launce. He came up to my room one morning, and 
as he held my hand in his firm grip, he said — 

“ Mr. Benedick, I have come upon a painful errand.” 

“ Sir,” I said, “ I know what it is. You have come 
to tell me that my poor boy is no more.” 

He bowed his head, and I sank into a chair, cover- 
ing my face with my hands, and I sat there awhile, 
unable to move, or indeed to tliink collectively. I 
could only say to myself, “ He is gone — my dear boy 
is gone.” Then I thought of the past — of all his 
faults as well as of his virtues — ^his thriftless, way- 
ward, indolent, careless habits ; his generous, tender, 
gay, affectionate heart. I cried while Mr. Gerard, as 
quietly as a woman, spoke what words of comfort and 
encouragement were possible. It did no good to cry, 
and when I had fetched a clean handkerchief out of 
the drawer and wiped my eyes, I became curious to 
know how he died. In reply to my questions, Mr. 
Launce handed me over the translation of Fran9ois 
Luchesi’s narrative, which I have already set down. 
I read it through, stopping now and then to use my 
handkerchief, and when I had finished it, I said — 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


325 


“ My boy must have seen something in that paper 
which prevented, him accepting liberation from Sebas- 
tian Fleming.” 

Mr. Launce told me that the paper was the one he 
had signed as a promise to give his life for Josef’s 
freedom. 

“ Then he did well, my poor Josef,” said I ; and it 
consoled me to think that with all his faults and 
effeminacy, he had yet strong, manly nobility in his 
soul. 

“ He was a hero,” said Mr. Launce. “ It was in a 
frenzy that he killed the villain who had brought him 
to despair, and, having killed him, he could not live 
himself. Yet he tried to avoid violence, as you will 
see by this letter, which was sent to me directly after 
his end.” 

He put a letter into my hand. It was that which 
Josef wrote in the inn at Forgnasco. It ran thus — 

“ Dear Sir, 

“ I sit in the same room with Sebastian 
Fleming. It is with difficulty I have kept my hands 
from destroying him. I fly to escape the guilt of 
murder. I dare not trust myself with him, maddened 
as I am by the sense of loss and wrong. I have dis- 
covered the price he exacted from you for my libera- 
tion, and I see why he tempted me to love, and to hope 
for happiness. To marry Dorothy would be to mur- 
der you. I am not a villain. My life is useless ; I 
would not have it worse. It is enough that I suffer. 
I hope to escape to some remote corner of the world 
where I may be safe from discovery, and beyond the 
reach of Sebastian Fleming. Heaven grant that he 
may not overtake me, lest I should yield to the temp- 
tation to take his life. If I kill him, I must die also. 

“ In case I have no further opportunity of writing, 
I beg you, sir, to give my dear father a farewell word 
for me, and to tell Dorothy that my last thoughts will 
be of her — my only prayer that she may have peace 
and joy. 

“ I cannot thank you for your generosity ; words 


32G 


FOB LO VE AND HONOR. 


are inadequate to repay all that I owe. I give you 
more ; and believe me that I resign my darling to you 
without one jealous thought, one grudging murmur. 

“ Adieu. 

“ Josef Benedick.” 

****** 

An unexpected friend came to comfort Dorothy in 
her last grief. This was Mrs. Betterton. Dorothy 
had shunned her for a long time. The matter-of-fact 
worldliness of the experienced woman did not harmo- 
nize with the girl’s romantic idealism, and Gerard ex- 
pected that Mrs. Betterton’s kindly advances would 
be repulsed. He was in error. It was such a friend 
as Mrs. Betterton that Dorothy needed — a woman 
hopeful and strong, with tender feeling, and the tact 
to wean others from despondency by the same means 
she had employed for overcoming her own disappoint- 
ment. 

Very soon after her arrival, Mrs. Betterton said to 
Gerard — 

“ Mr. Launce, the very best thing you can do for 
Dorothy is to go away for a year. You are of no use 
here. Men are bad nurses, and your presence only 
serves to recall the past, and to impress the poor girl’s 
mind with anxiety.” 

“ Leave her, when it is still uncertain whether she 
will live or die ? ” Gerard exclaimed. 

“ Yes ; if she is to die you cannot save her. If she 
is to recover, your absence will make her recovery 
quicker. Your pitiable face can cheer no one, and 
least of all her who feels in some way responsible for 
your suffering. Go away, if you love her.” 

It took much argument to convince him, but in the 
end he yielded to her reasoning. It was less difiBLcult 
to reconcile Dorothy to the separation. 

“ He needs change more than I, poor Gerard. It 
will do me good to think that he is getting back his 
health and spirits,” she said. 

When the day of parting came, she said to him — 

“ Have no fear for me, Gerard dear ; I shall recover 


FOR LOVE AND HONOR. 


327 


sooner than you think. The doctors said I should live 
if I could find something to live for. I have found 
it.” 

Gerard wondered what new duty this high-principled 
young girl had found to perform. 

“ Promise me one thing, Dolly,” he said; ‘‘promise 
me that if you are in trouble you will call to me for 
help, as in the old days ; wherever I may be I shall 
hear you, and I will come to you, dearest sister.” 

He hunted up his old friends Shirley and Brooke, 
and, with very little persuasion, induced them to 
accompany him on a boating expedition in Norway. 

The change of scene, the bracing air, the many 
delights of “ roughing it,” had a speedy effect of chasing 
away the gloom that had for so long oppressed him ; 
but a still more powerful factor than these acted upon 
his mind and body. Every letter from Dorothy proved 
to him that he had less to fear, and more to hope for, 
on her account. Gradually the tone of her letters grew 
brighter and firmer ; her writing, which at first showed 
plainly that it was written by a weak, trembling hand 
grew strong and bold. In solitude he used to compare 
them, and trace the gradual improvement in character 
and tone, and his heart rejoiced. There was less con- 
straint in them as time went on ; she talked of Mrs. 
Betterton, and repeated the lively tlnngs she said, and 
herself became almost gay in repeating them. Yet 
under all her words, pensive or cheerful, there ran a 
current of tender affection and devotion to Gerard 
which he would have been blind indeed to have over- 
looked. 

His friends always knew when he had received a 
letter, and the evenings of those days were given up to 
jollity wherever they were, and Gerard laughed as 
heartily on those occasions as any one. He listened in 
vain at night-time for that cry of “ Help ” which had 
first drawn him to the side of the girl he loved. Some- 
times he wished that his senses might be cheated into 
the belief that such a cry was raised, that he might fly 
back to England, to look again into the lovely face of 
his beloved Dorothy. 


828 


FOE LOVE AND HONOR. 


He wrote to her in a letter sent at the beginning of 
October — 

“ We have finished Norway, and Brooke has business 
in London. Where I am to go, and how I am to find 
content for the next three months. Heaven only knows.” 

The reply to that letter was short. There was merely 
this word upon the sheet — 

“ Help ! ” 

No sooner had he read that than, at the danger of 
capsizing the yacht, he crowded on every stitch of 
canvas she would carry, and sped homewards. He 
arrived in London with the gratification of knowing 
that he was four hours earlier than if he had waited 
for the mail. 

Nevertheless, early as he was, Dorothy was waiting 
for him. She saw him leap from the hansom, and bound 
up the steps to the door, and, leaving the window, she 
sank into a chair and waited with a wildly beating 
heart. 

Gerard burst open the door and stopped, seeing her 
bowed with her face in her hands. 

“ Dolly ! ” he cried, half fearing that her cry for 
help was more serious than he had expected. 

She lifted her face all suffused with a blush, and her 
cheek just dimpled with a smile. She held out her 
hands, and said — 

“ Help me, Gerard dear.” 

He caught her two hands eagerly in his, and, as she 
sank again into her seat, he dropped upon his knees 
by her side, and, still holding her hands, looked up 
into her face and said — 

“ Help you, Dolly dear ! Why, you are quite strong, 
and more beautiful than ever I have seen you. How 
can I help you ? ” 

“ Help me to do my duty as your loyal and loving 
wife, Gerard,” she said, and she drew his head to her 
breast, and mingled with her kisses tears of gratitude 
for the love of this strong and faithful man. 

*#=*?*** 

What else have I to say ? Nothing that will greatly 
interest the reader. The grief of losing my dear Josef 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


329 


weighed upon my heart for many months. It was my 
consolation, being now quite alone in the world, to drop 
in upon my neighbors, evening after evening, and talk 
about the past, and my poor boy. They were sad even- 
ings, for Miss Sarah could not forget how kind he had 
been to her, and there were the bird and the pots of 
floAvers he had bought her still making the room gay, 
though he was dead and gone. After a while Mrs. 
Grey endeavored to avoid the subject, but Miss Sarah 
was just as ready as I to indulge our sorrowful feel- 
ings ; and if we did not talk of Josef, we thought of him 
in silence, and that was just as bad. At length Mrs. 
Grey spoke out plainly, and said she would rather I 
stayed aAvay unless I could assume a little cheerful- 
ness. I took her at her word, and stopped away. But 
I used to look for Miss Sarah at her window, and we 
would exchange greetings, and speak a few words just 
as if Mrs. Grey had not given me cause for oifence. 

She wore black for Josef, and any one sweeter and 
prettier than she looked it would be quite impossible 
to imagine. And when I thought how she had made 
it every stitch herself, and used the same buttons I had 
seen on another dress, admiration for her economy and 
industry was added to my appreciation of her good 
looks, and produced the most tender sensations in my 
breast. I also bought a new suit, and, I must confess, 
it made me look a dozen years younger. 

Well, one day Mrs. Grey met me in the square, and 
stopping directly in front of me, she said — 

“ Mr. Benedick, there’s too much real sorrow in this 
world for people to go out of their way to make more. 
Come and see us again, for I do believe Sarah is more 
downhearted without your melancholy recollections 
than she is with them. If you must talk of sad things, 
talk of them ; but let us all try to ease the burden for 
each other, and pray God to give us strength.” 

I saw I had been in error, and I acknowledged it 
frankly. That night I spent the evening with the 
good widow and her daughter. I felt so amiable to- 
Avards Miss Sarah, that when I bade her good-night I 
kissed her forehead. The next evening, when she bade 


330 


FOB LOVE AND HONOR. 


me good-night, we were alone, and I kissed her cheek 
instead of her forehead, and, as she was not offended, I 
stayed a little longer, holding her hand and talking 
about the Post-office Savings Bank. She told me how 
much money she had, and, the amount exceeding my 
expectations, added to the delight I felt on looking at 
her nice eyes and comely figure. Then I told her how 
much I had, and watched her astonishment with pleas- 
ure. I said good-night once more, and this time I 
kissed her nice rosy lips, and it seemed to me that they 
just parted in reply; whereupon my feelings so far 
overcame my habitual prudence, that I asked her if 
she would be my wife and put her money in the bank 
with mine, and she said she would do so. 

And now we are married ; but Sarah still tenderly 
cares for the flowers and the goldfinch which were the 
gifts of my dear son Josef. 


THE END. 





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